It smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee, alive with the low hum of monitors and the hurried footsteps. Dr. Michael Robinavitch moved down the hall beside Dennis Whitaker, gloves snapped on, clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Room three’s stable for now,” Robinavitch said, voice low, clipped. “But labs are off. Someone double-checks before we call it.”

Whitaker nodded, keeping pace, a silent shadow beside him. “Got it. And trauma five?”

Robby’s eyes flicked toward the bay as he tightened his grip on the chart. “Pressure’s rising. I want lines ready before they hit. No surprises.”

By the time they reached the main desk, a new face appeared in a scrubs, the transfer, backpack over the shoulder.

Robby caught the glance, the newcomer asked for directions, and the chaotic hum of the Pitt swallowed the answer.