On the day of the clinic’s celebration banquet,
my wife tried to make her first love a household-name miracle doctor, forcing me to teach him our ancestral prescription. She even pretended she was doing it to ease my burden.
The employees whispered among themselves, looking at me with deep sympathy for the horns growing over my head.
When they expected a bloody fight to break out,
I instead presented the prescription with both hands, patted my rival on the shoulder, and magnanimously said, “You’re so talented, why don’t you be the clinic director!”
They think I owe my popularity with patients to the ancestral prescription.
No one knows that once the prescription leaves my hands, it turns into poison.
