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A bright American hospital prep room, midday. A white male surgeon in his forties stands over a young Asian American woman in scrubs at the sink. He points at her dismissively and says loudly: "Go get me the REAL doctor." Close-up on her face—she pauses, jaw tight, then turns to face him directly. She says calmly but firmly: "I AM the doctor." He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and turns away with a condescending wave. "Yeah, right. Diversity hire." The insult hangs in the air. She pulls out her phone without breaking eye contact. Dials. The surgeon crosses his arms, smirking. She speaks into the phone: "Dad, can you come to OR-3?" His smirk falters. "There's a surgeon who won't work with me." The door slams open behind him. An older Asian American man in a white coat enters—name tag reads "CHIEF OF SURGERY." The surgeon's face drains of color. The Chief looks at his daughter, then at the surgeon, then says ice-cold: "My office. Now." The surgeon's mouth opens but no words come out. Close-up on the daughter's face: calm, victorious. No logos, no brand names, no watermarks, no text overlays. Cinematic, realistic tone.

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A bright American hospital prep room, midday. A white male surgeon in his forties stands over a young Asian American ...

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