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In the surgeons' office at New World Hospital, the smell of disinfectant could never quite overpower the scent of coffee. Head Nurse Bepo leaned against the nurses' station, cradling a stack of medical charts, watching for the thousandth time as that tall, slender figure at the end of the hallway became the target of countless gazes-some overt, some discreet.
Dr. Trafalgar D Water Law, twenty-six years old, an Omega. At his age, most doctors at this level of hospital would still be running errands, but he was already the sharpest scalpel in cardiac surgery, publishing papers more prolifically than some professors. What was more infuriating was that pale, sharply defined face paired with those always aloof, almost distant golden eyes-somehow he managed to make the hospital's standard- pastel blue surgical scrubs look haute couture.
"Third wave," Bepo sighed to Penguin, who was sneaking chocolate nearby. "Third bouquet this month delivered to the department. When will they ever learn?"
Penguin swallowed the chocolate and lowered his voice: "Because no one actually believes he's married. Think about it-twenty-six, genius surgeon, looks like a model-and he's a married Omega? Who buys that? Everyone assumes the ring is just a prop to ward off admirers."
Bepo raised an eyebrow: "But he's never taken it off."
Indeed, he never had. That simple platinum band sat securely on Law's left ring finger, strikingly prominent against his long, pale hands. Whenever someone uninformed-or pretending to be-ventured to ask about his relationship status, Law would pause whatever he was doing, whether writing medical records or scrubbing in, touch the ring lightly with fingertips clad in sterile gloves or still glistening with water droplets, then lift those calm, rippleless golden eyes. A faint, almost polite curve would grace his lips: "I'm married."
If the other person dared to press, "Then your partner is..." Law's smile would deepen just slightly, a flicker of something almost tender yet utterly helpless would flash through those golden eyes, and he'd say:
"An idiot."
This answer was more devastating than the marital status itself. It sealed off all possibilities for follow-up, yet left infinite room for imagination: What kind of "idiot" could possibly have captured Trafalgar Law? What sort of partner would be described this way, yet make Law deliberately touch his wedding ring when mentioning them?
The hospital forum's anonymous section had spawned seventeen towering threads analyzing everything from the helplessness of an arranged business marriage to hidden angsty love stories. The most voted option was "Dr. Law is joking-he's actually single." After all, no one had ever seen this legendary idiot partner show up-no pick-ups, no visitations, no check-in calls, nothing. Law's life trajectory was terrifyingly simple: hospital, home, occasional lectures at the medical school.
Until that Wednesday afternoon.
The pediatric outpatient department exploded first. A little boy, maybe three years old, topped with a head of fluffy, soft red hair the color of maple syrup, wearing a pair of obviously expensive little suspender pants currently sporting what looked suspiciously like a chocolate stain, came wobbling alone through the automatic doors and approached the triage desk.
He had to tiptoe just to barely rest his chin on the counter. His round, large eyes were a rare amber-gold, like melted honey. He tilted his face up and announced, clear as day, to the stunned nurse: "Hello, I'm looking for Dr. Trafalgar."
A baby voice, but every syllable was distinct.
On-duty nurse Caimi's heart melted on the spot. She crouched down, her voice dropping eight levels of softness: "Little one, which Dr. Trafalgar are you looking for? Where are your mommy and daddy?"
"Dr. Law," the little boy said seriously, pulling a crumpled slip of paper from his front suspender pocket. On it, in crooked, wobbly handwriting, was a line: "New World Hospital, Surgery Department, Trafalgar Law." Beneath the words was an extremely abstract drawing-barely recognizable as a little figure wearing a spotted knit cap. "I have the address. Papa gave it to me."
"Papa... let you come alone?" Caimi's voice trembled.
"Papa was in a meeting, boooooring." The little boy drew out the word, pouting. The expression was so lively that several nurses secretly peeking nearby simultaneously clutched their chests. "So I asked Grandpa Driver to bring me. He said he'd wait in the parking lot, but I remembered the way."
Three years old. Alone. Remembered the way. Asked the driver to bring him.
Caimi and the other medical staff who'd gathered exchanged horrified looks. Whose child was this, with a heart so leaky it might as well have been full of holes?!
But the child was too adorable, too composed. His red hair under the hospital's fluorescent lights was like a little sun, his golden eyes curiously sweeping the surroundings without a trace of fear. Bepo had been summoned from Surgery, and the moment she saw that red hair, something in her heart gave a strange jolt-that hair color, why did it look familiar?
"What's your name, little one?" Bepo also crouched, trying her best to look kind and approachable.
"Lawrie," the little boy answered loudly, then added, "Figarland-Trafalgar Lawrie. I'm looking for Dr. Law. He's my daddy."
The air went silent for a full five seconds.
"...Who?" Penguin nearly dropped his chart.
"Trafalgar Law, my daddy." Lawrie repeated patiently, as if these adults had comprehension issues. He waved the paper. "Daddy drew this. Does it look like him?" He pointed at the abstract little figure.
Bepo stared at the scribbled lines, then lifted her gaze to Lawrie's unabashedly vivid red hair and golden eyes. A wildly absurd yet strangely fitting hypothesis, one that connected every fragmented clue, slammed into her brain.
"...I'll take you." He heard her own voice, dry as dust.
Thus began the most adorable quest for kin in New World Hospital's history: a three-year-old red-haired boy leading the way, one suspender strap slipped off his shoulder; Bepo following behind; then Penguin and Shachi, barely containing their curiosity; and gradually, medical staff from various departments who just "happened to be passing by" merged into the procession. The group snowballed.
When they reached the Cardiothoracic Surgery floor, Law had just finished a grueling six-hour aortic dissection surgery and was doing his final scrub at the hand-washing station. His back was slightly curved, water rushing over his long fingers, his profile-under surgical cap and mask-revealing only weary but still piercing brows and eyes.
"Dr. Law!" Bepo's voice came out a bit floaty.
Law turned off the tap, wiped his hands with a sterile towel, and turned around. His gaze first landed on Bepo, questioning, then moved downward-
And stopped on the red-haired little bean looking up at him.
Time seemed to slow. Everyone held their breath.
Then, they saw Law's perpetually composed golden eyes widen-visibly, unmistakably. The mask concealed the lower half of his face, but the muscles at the corners of his eyes twitched, clearly telegraphing a mixture of shock and exasperation.
"Daddy!" Lawrie called out happily, spreading his short little arms and lunging forward to hug Law's leg, still clad in green surgical pants.
"..."
"..."
The watching medical staff felt they could almost hear the crackling sound of their worldviews shattering. Penguin braced himself against the wall.
Law looked down at the appendage attached to his leg, closed his eyes, then opened them again. He removed his mask and surgical cap, his black hair slightly damp at the temples. He didn't immediately pick up the child. Instead, he first swept his gaze around his petrified colleagues-a look that clearly said "What are you all staring at? Don't you have work to do?"
Yet, when he looked back at Lawrie, though his brow was furrowed and his tone carried reproach, his voice held something no one had ever heard from him before... softness? Helpless affection?
"Lawrie," Law spoke, his voice slightly hoarse from the long surgery, "how did you get here?"
"Driver brought me," Lawrie obediently answered, rubbing his little face against Law's pants. "Papa was in a mee-eeting. A reeeeally long meeting. It wasn't fun at the company. I missed you, Papa."
Law took a deep breath, bent down, and scooped up the little one with one arm, settling him in the crook of his elbow. The motion was as practiced as if he'd done it thousands of times. Lawrie naturally wrapped his arms around Law's neck, nestling his little red-haired head into his shoulder.
"So you just took the address and ran off by yourself?" Law used his free hand to tap Lawrie's nose. "What did I tell you? No wandering off alone."
"I remembered the way!" Lawrie protested, then blinked his big eyes. "Daddy, don't be mad. Papa should be the mad one. He probably cried from being scared."
The sheer volume of information contained in this sentence once again plunged the onlookers into stupor.
Law seemed amused. The faintest curve flickered at the corner of his mouth. Ignoring the dropped jaws scattered around him, he turned and carried his child toward his office, tossing behind him: "Nurse Bepo, cancel my afternoon consultations. Penguin, Shachi, go do whatever you're supposed to do."
Once inside the office, the door didn't quite close. Curiosity overcoming discretion, the crowd silently shifted to prime eavesdropping positions.
They heard Law set Lawrie down on the office desk, then take out his phone and dial a number. The call was answered almost instantly.
A man's panicked, nearly cracking voice carried faintly even from a distance: "Law?! Thank God you picked up! Lawrie's gone! I finished the meeting and he was gone! The driver said he never got in the car! I checked the surveillance-I saw him leave the building but I don't know where he went! I'm going out of my mind-I've already called the police-"
The voice was loud, emotionally charged, rambling.
Law held the phone slightly away from his ear, waiting for the torrent to subside, then spoke calmly: "He's with me."
Dead silence on the other end.
Then a huge, almost boneless exhale. "...What?"
"I said," Law enunciated, clear and deliberate, "Mr. Figarland-Trafalgar Lawrie is currently sitting on my desk at New World Hospital, playing with my stethoscope. He claims that because some reeeeally long meeting was so boring, he decided to visit his Papa at work."
Another silence. Then, chaotic crashing sounds from the other end, muffled shouts of "Cancel all my appointments!", and the man's voice-still trembling but distinctly alive again-came through: "I'm coming right now! Right now! Fifteen minutes! No, ten! Tell him to stay put! Law, watch him! I'm begging you!"
"Alright," Law's voice held a deeper note of resignation, but perhaps... something else too. "Drive carefully, idiot. Don't speed again."
He hung up without waiting for a reply. Looking down, he found Lawrie swinging his little legs, wearing an unmistakable "I told you so" expression.
"Papa cried from being scared, right?" Lawrie asked triumphantly.
Law flicked his forehead. "And you're proud of yourself." But there was definitely amusement in his eyes.
About nine minutes later, an unusual commotion rippled through the hospital lobby. A tall, imposing figure charged through the automatic doors at nearly sprinting speed. His hair-a deeper shade than Lawrie's, like burning flames-and equally blazing red eyes instantly commanded everyone's attention. The man wore an expensive custom suit, but his tie was askew, his collar button undone, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead-completely upending the composed, commanding image he usually presented on financial magazine covers.
He didn't even acknowledge the front desk inquiries, his gaze sweeping like radar before locking precisely onto the elevator bank-clearly, he'd long since familiarized himself with this layout.
When Shanks swept like a gale wind onto the Cardiothoracic Surgery floor, the scene that greeted him was: his son sitting on Law's desk, attempting to disassemble Law's pen; and Law leaning against the desk edge with folded arms, wearing a distinct "See what your parenting has wrought" expression.
"LAWRIE!!!" Shanks's roar carried equal parts terror and joy. He lunged forward, scooping the little boy off the desk and crushing him against his chest with such force that Lawrie let out an "Oof!"
"You little rascal! Little MENACE! You scared me to death! I thought you'd been kidnapped! I thought you were lost! Don't you ever-EVER-scare your Papa and me like that again!" Shanks's voice still trembled. He buried his face in his son's soft red hair, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. The tall Alpha, in this moment, was fragile as a child.
Lawrie squirmed a bit at the tight hold but obediently let his father hold him, patting Shanks's broad back with his tiny hand. "Papa, don't cry. I'm fine. I'm smart. I remembered the way."
"Remembering the way is NOT OKAY! ABSOLUTELY NOT OKAY!" Shanks lifted his head, his eyes indeed somewhat red. Only then did he seem to notice the medical staff-layered in the doorway, pressed against windows, multiple rows deep. Every face bore extreme shock, bewilderment, and an expression screaming "Am I dreaming."
His gaze met Law's. Law raised an eyebrow, mouthing silently: Idiot.
Shanks blinked. The panic and fragility on his face instantly melted into a familiar, slightly goofy yet brilliantly sunny grin. Still holding Lawrie with one arm, he reached out with the other, naturally encircling Law's waist and pulling him into his embrace, completing a full family hug.
"I'm sorry," Shanks murmured, nuzzling Law's temple, his voice steady again, with even a hint of pleading. "The meeting ran too long, my fault. Dr. Law's scolding is absolutely right."
Law elbowed him, but without force, and didn't pull away. Addressing his utterly fossilized colleagues beyond the door, he said in his usual work-mode calm voice: "Allow me to introduce my husband, Shanks. And my son, Lawrie. The family drama is over. Can everyone go back to work now?"
Silence.
The silence of the tomb.
Then, somewhere, someone sharply inhaled.
"Figarland... Shanks? THE... Figarland Group?!"
"Dr. Law's Alpha is... the CEO?!"
"So the 'idiot' they were talking about is..."
Shanks caught the last part. He broke into a grin, radiant and slightly roguish, utterly unlike the inscrutable business magnate on financial magazine covers. He bent to kiss Lawrie's hair, then quickly pecked Law on the cheek-before Law could dodge in distaste.
"That's right, I'm that idiot," Shanks admitted generously, his arms drawing his family-large and small-closer, his smile full of pure happiness and pride. "To have married Law, to have such a brilliant son-I must be the luckiest idiot in the world."
Law rolled his eyes, but this time, everyone clearly saw-when he turned his head away, the faint flush creeping up his ears, and the gentle, indulgent curve at the corner of his lips that he could no longer suppress.
Outside, the sunlight was perfect. Inside the office, crowded together, was their small, somewhat chaotic yet infinitely warm family of three. And beyond that door, the long-standing legend of New World Hospital-the mystery of Dr. Trafalgar Law's marital status-ended today, in the most unexpected yet perfectly logical way, with a thunderous flourish.
In its place arose a new legend, destined to top the hospital forum's hot threads for years to come: #On the Daily Life of the Genius Surgeon, His CEO Alpha, and Their Demolition Expert Red-Fluff Cub#.
Penguin later managed to sneak a photo-Shanks, red-eyed, clutching Lawrie tightly, with Law standing by, helplessly smiling. Nurse Bepo set it as the background of the department's internal group chat. A permanent treasure.