Everyone was so shocked, they froze. Jeremiah returned with two freshly made, hot milkshakes. He surveyed their expressions, understood instantly, and strolled to Yvette.

"Let's go," he said slowly. "The culprit's at the police station. Andrew's still there."

Yvette's eyes lifted; she rose, her cool face both fierce and alluring. "Okay," she replied.

Ignoring the crowd, Yvette and Jeremiah, hand in hand, walked out. Harold shouted after them, "Did you use acupuncture?"

Yvette paused, but didn't look back. "Acupuncture works wonderfully," she said plainly. "One hundred and seventy copper figures, each with countless apertures. Traditional medicine isn't inferior to Western medicine; it's simply a different approach. You may not understand our ancestors' wisdom, but don't belittle it."

With that, she left, her lean silhouette radiating confidence. Harold, baffled, looked to Tristan for help.

Seeing Harold's distress, Tristan sighed. "The acupuncture master's skill was legendary," he explained. "A few precise needle placements could bring someone back from the brink. The 170 bronze statues, each with intricate points, are a testament to the complexity of traditional treatment."

He glanced at the downcast nurses and doctors, a wave of emotion washing over him. More and more children only know Western medicine, forgetting the true treasure of our civilization—the wisdom of our ancestors. Fewer and fewer people study traditional medicine. In the last decade, even in the hospitals I oversee, traditional medicine departments haven't been prioritized, he thought, resolving to prioritize and thoroughly reform the hospital's traditional medicine department.

Harold, a long-time practitioner of Western medicine, was amazed by his first encounter with traditional medicine's charm. Within an hour, news of Yvette's acupuncture rescue spread through Seacrity Hospital.

Inside the black Jeep, Jeremiah drove while Yvette, curled in the passenger seat, sipped her warm milkshake. Her sleeves were half-rolled up, revealing a pale arm. Tilting her head, she said calmly, "No plan?"

Jeremiah, driving one-handed, paused. "Yeah," he said, his voice clear. "Looks like someone paid him off. No matter how the police question him, he claims it was an accident. Surveillance footage only shows that after Mr. Chambers' car lost control, a large truck suddenly appeared, causing the crash."

Yvette took a sip, her eyes lazily lowered, her gaze chillingly cold. A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. Jeremiah's heart skipped a beat. Yvette is dangerous and alluring, he thought.

Raising an eyebrow, Jeremiah recalled Mysonna's call. "You know traditional medicine?" he asked, his voice full of charisma. "And you can fly a plane, too?"

Yvette paused, milkshake in hand, crossed her legs, and half-closed her dark eyes. "I know a bit of everything," she said.

Jeremiah gently pinched her fingers, a slight smile playing on his lips. If the pilot hadn't spoken, he might have believed it. Yvette had terrified the pilot, going straight to the cockpit and insisting on flying back to Seacrity herself. When the captain refused, she knocked him out; he awoke in Seacrity. He was still complaining to Bruce. As for her knowledge of traditional medicine? Yvette's definition of "a bit" differed from most.

Quentin, about to board his private jet, received Jeremiah's message that he needn't return. Confused, he retrieved his suitcase and returned to the hotel. From Mr. Chavez's call, have they found a doctor? Is there anyone in the country with a higher success rate than my surgeries? he wondered.

After considering, Quentin called Jeremiah. He couldn't miss the opportunity to meet such a talented person.

"Mr. Chavez," he said.

Jeremiah answered as he parked, naturally helping Yvette unbuckle her seatbelt. "Hmm," he replied.

Quentin wasted no time on pleasantries. "Mr. Chavez, if you don't mind, who performed the surgery? It's not over, is it?"

Jeremiah glanced at Yvette, legs crossed, enjoying her milkshake. His eyes flickered subtly. "The surgery is done, and the patient is fine," he said in a deep voice. "As for who? Let me ask her first."

Quentin breathed deeply. The surgery is already done? Only three hours since my call! And the patient is saved? he thought.

After hanging up, Quentin sat stunned. Since when is such an experienced doctor in Clusia, and how am I unaware? he wondered.

At the police station entrance, Andrew smoked while Wyatt stood beside him, serious. Director Zane Chappell stood behind them.

Seeing a familiar license plate, Andrew extinguished his cigarette and strode towards the car. Wyatt, recognizing the arrival, followed. Zane had endured a busy, stressful morning. Wyatt had personally brought the uncooperative Andrew to interrogate the accident culprit, who remained unfazed, insisting it was an accident. Wyatt and Andrew disagreed; the case's mishandling could impact their careers.

Jeremiah exited the car, opened the passenger door, revealing a pair of long, straight legs. Wyatt's eye twitched. Only Yvette could make Jeremiah open the door for her. Since learning Yvette was Cyanbird, Wyatt viewed her differently. An internationally renowned artist was far more valuable than a wealthy Seacrity woman.

Andrew felt embarrassed, having failed to inform Yvette first. "Ms. Chavez," he greeted.

Yvette nodded slightly, glancing at Jeremiah. This guy's made the title stick, she thought. Jeremiah innocently raised an eyebrow. Wyatt froze at the title, a sharp glint in his eyes. He knew Andrew wouldn't dare call Yvette that without Jeremiah's consent. He regarded Yvette with increased caution and respect. He couldn't underestimate the future matriarch of the Chavez family.

Wyatt smiled. "Mr. Chavez, Ms. Zeller." Jeremiah responded with a noncommittal "Hmm." Yvette nodded politely. "Hello, Mr. Langford." Wyatt's smile widened. She's a good child, he thought.