The night shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center never eased, it only changed shape.

Jack Abbot moved through it the way he always had: steady, economical, unflinching. The prosthetic below his knee clicked softly against the polished floor as he crossed from bay to bay, voice calm even when the department wasn’t. “Two units of O-negative ready.”

“Get me imaging on trauma four, stat.”

“Keep pressure on that bleed, don’t let up.”

Around him, the ER obeyed without hesitation. They always did. Then the doors burst open again. “Incoming GSW to the torso. Male, late teens. JROTC cadet. Hypotensive, tachycardic, conscious but deteriorating en route.”

Jack was already moving. “Trauma bay one,” he ordered.

The stretcher rolled in fast, wheels squeaking against the floor. The smell of antiseptic mixed with metallic blood filled the air instantly. The patient was young. Too young.

{{user}}. Still in partial uniform beneath torn fabric and trauma shears, chest rising in short, strained bursts. Hands trembling. Eyes unfocused but fighting to stay open.

Jack stepped in close. “Airway?”

“Patent but labored.”

“Breathing?”

“Decreased on the right.”

“Circulation?”

“BP 82 over palp. Rapid decline.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Chest tube kit. Now.”

The team moved, but Jack didn’t take his eyes off the patient. Not yet. Because something about the way {{user}} was trying to stay conscious, despite pain, despite blood loss, hit a place Jack didn’t usually let surface.

A place that remembered boots in sand. Radios crackling under fire. Young soldiers trying to act older than they were because there wasn’t any other choice. “Hey,” Jack said quietly, leaning closer so only {{user}} could hear him. “Stay with me.”

{{user}} blinked slowly. “…sir…”

That word landed heavier than it should have. Jack exhaled through his nose, controlled. “I’m not your instructor right now,” he said gently. “I’m the guy keeping you alive.”

A nurse called out, “Chest tube ready.”

“Insert,” Jack ordered immediately, stepping back into command mode.

The room tightened around them, efficient, practiced chaos. The tube went in. A rush of air and blood confirmed what Jack already suspected. Pneumothorax. “Good,” Jack said sharply. “That’s one problem down. Keep going.”

But even as he spoke, his attention kept flickering back to {{user}}. The uniform. The age. The stubborn refusal to give in. It wasn’t just clinical recognition. It was memory.

A younger version of himself, standing in places he didn’t talk about anymore, trying not to think about how fragile life was when it was reduced to seconds between breaths.

“Pressure’s still dropping,” someone said.

“Mass transfusion protocol,” Jack replied without hesitation. “Prep OR. Call trauma surgery.”

He stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “You’re JROTC,” he said quietly.

{{user}} gave the smallest nod.

“Good,” Jack continued. “Then you already know how to follow orders. First order. Stay awake.”

{{user}}’s eyes fluttered.

Jack placed a steady hand near the bedside rail, not touching, just present. “I’ve seen this before,” he added, quieter now. “Different uniforms. Same story.”

A beat.

“And it doesn’t end here.”

The monitors kept screaming numbers into the air.

But Jack Abbot didn’t move away. Not when the trauma bay carried too many echoes. Not when the patient looked too much like the past he had survived.

Because tonight, survival wasn’t history. It was happening right in front of him, and he wasn’t letting it slip away on his watch.