Chapter 5 The Perfect Man

The old man in the tailored Mandarin jacket gasped for breath, his skin pale, beads of sweat rolling down his temples like bullets. Around him, a nervous circle of pedestrians murmured, their faces tense as they watched his condition rapidly deteriorate. His square-jawed bodyguard stood frozen, glancing between the collapsing figure and the street, where the sound of distant sirens hadn't yet pierced the air.

Blair Walker stood on her toes, peering over the crowd. She clutched Graham Marcus's arm, her voice low and laced with sarcasm.

"Hey, Virgin Boy," she muttered. "You sure you wanna get involved? This is someone's life we're talking about. If something goes wrong... I'm running."

Graham arched a brow at her. "Thanks for the loyalty."

"Just saying," she shrugged, "if it turns into a legal disaster, I've got good legs and no criminal record."

Ignoring her, Graham pushed his way through the crowd, his black medical case swinging at his side. He was nearly at the old man when the square-jawed bodyguard stepped in front of him, arms crossed and brows drawn into a frown.

"Who the hell are you?" the man growled, his voice sharp and defensive.

Graham didn't spare him a glance. His eyes were locked on the old man's trembling form. "If you don't let me help, this man will be dead in five minutes."

The bodyguard narrowed his eyes. "You? Aren't you the quack with the street stall?"

Graham folded his arms and took a measured step back. "My mentor used to say saving a life is more important than building a seven-story cathedral. But he also taught me not to climb trees I wasn't invited into. You've got five minutes. You decide."

Blair crossed her arms beside him, her lips twitching with a grin. "Nice speech. Real Grey's Anatomy moment."

The bodyguard was about to respond when the old man stirred, his eyes fluttering open. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Aaron... let him... help me."

The bodyguard-apparently named Aaron-looked stunned. "Sir, but-"

"Do it," the old man rasped. "Let him."

Aaron moved aside reluctantly.

Graham dropped to his knees, opened his medical case, and placed two fingers gently against the man's pulse point. "Late-stage cold-induced myocardial strain. If I don't act now, your heart will fail."

Blair hovered behind him, shooting Aaron a dirty look. "Still wanna punch someone or let the guy work?"

Aaron's jaw clenched but he remained silent.

Graham's fingers danced over the contents of his case. "I need white liquor. Now."

Aaron blinked. "You need what?"

Graham looked up, annoyed. "A bottle of white liquor. Vodka. Moonshine. Whatever. Strong alcohol. One minute. There's a hotel bar next door."

Aaron hesitated for a second too long.

Blair snapped, "Move your linebacker legs before he codes on the pavement!"

Aaron finally bolted toward the hotel.

Meanwhile, Graham opened a small wooden box inside his kit. Inside were rows of thin silver needles, gleaming like instruments of divine precision. He selected a pair and checked their tips with a gloved hand.

"Alright," he murmured to himself, "Tanzhong and Juque points. Gentle rotation. Two rounds. Then alcohol stimulation. Breathe steady, old man..."

The crowd held its breath.

Seconds later, Aaron returned, panting, with a tall bottle of clear liquor in hand.

Graham grabbed it, uncapped it with one hand, and handed it to Blair. "Three sips. No more, no less. I'll hold him."

Blair blinked. "Wait-*me*?"

"Would you like to explain to his ghost why you chickened out?"

Rolling her eyes, Blair dropped to her knees and helped lift the old man into a seated position. She tilted the bottle and carefully poured the liquor into his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, and then with more ease the second and third time.

Almost instantly, his cheeks flushed with color.

Blair gaped. "Holy crap. That actually *worked*?"

Gasps rippled through the onlookers.

"Did you see that?"

"Is this guy a real doctor?"

"White liquor? That's nuts-but it worked!"

"He's not just some scam artist with a booth."

Graham ignored them all. He leaned forward, removed the old man's coat, and said calmly, "I'll administer two acupuncture injections through your shirt. Hold still."

The old man's eyes widened. "Through the shirt?"

Graham's voice was steady. "It'll reach the meridians. Trust me."

After a long pause, the old man nodded. "I trust you."

With swift, precise movements, Graham inserted the two thin needles into his chest-one at the Tanzhong point, one at the Juque point. He gave them a light twist, rubbed the area, then swiftly withdrew them.

The old man sucked in a breath-sharp and full. He coughed once, then exhaled deeply. The color in his face deepened, his back straightened, and his limbs stopped trembling.

In less than two minutes, the frail, gasping elder looked rejuvenated.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

"He's cured!"

"Unbelievable!"

"This guy's better than a hospital!"

Blair stood back, watching with a combination of awe and amusement. "You just brought a dude back from the brink with moonshine and needles. Who *are* you?"

Graham turned to her with a smirk. "The miracle virgin, apparently."

The old man gripped his hand, tears brimming in his eyes. "Young man... you saved my life. I owe you a debt I can never repay."

Graham shook his head. "Don't thank me yet. Your recovery will take time. And you should stop drinking cold tea first thing in the morning. That's half the problem."

The old man laughed softly. "You even know my habits..."

Behind them, Aaron stood awkwardly, clearly embarrassed. "Sir, I-"

"You did your job," the old man said. "But next time, listen to your gut. And maybe to the young woman yelling at you."

Blair gave Aaron a smug grin. "Apology accepted."

Then the old man turned back to Graham. "I must know your name."

"Graham Marcus."

The old man narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "And your master? Who trained you?"

"My grandfather. Charles Marcus."

That seemed to ring a bell. The old man's eyebrows shot up. "The Charles Marcus? Of the Greenstone School of Integrative Medicine?"

Graham nodded. "He was my teacher, my family, and the one who taught me never to treat the rich any different from the poor."

The old man studied him with new respect. "Incredible. You're his heir. No wonder."

Blair's ears perked up. "Wait, like *the* Charles Marcus? He's practically a legend!"

Graham sighed. "He's dead. But he'd be pleased to know someone still remembers."

The old man leaned in, lowering his voice. "Graham... would you come work for me? My name is Walter Hargrove. My family controls the Hargrove Foundation. If you're willing to join our team of personal physicians, I'll pay whatever you ask."

Graham blinked. "I didn't treat you for money."

"Consider it gratitude."

He hesitated, eyes shifting toward Blair-who was suddenly very still.

And then he said, "Let me think about it."

Walter smiled. "Fair enough. You know where to find me. Aaron-get their contact information."

The bodyguard nodded, this time with a respectful tilt of his head.

As the Hargrove entourage departed, the crowd slowly dispersed, still murmuring about the miracle they'd just witnessed.

Blair stood beside Graham, lips twitching. "Well... look at you. Saving billionaires and getting job offers. Aren't you the perfect man?"

Graham exhaled. "Don't call me that."

She smirked. "But you *are*, aren't you?"

And then, out of nowhere, a voice cut through the calm like a blade.

"Excuse me," someone said behind them. "Are you two... married?"

Blair turned slowly. A hotel clerk stood behind them, smiling curiously.

Caught off guard, Blair blurted the first thing that came to mind.

"He's my uncle."

Silence.

Graham turned to her in slow motion, his face a frozen mask.

Blair's smile faltered.

And Graham, voice dripping in silk and threat, leaned close to her ear and whispered, "Uncle? Oh, sweetheart... you're going to regret that."