The fluorescent lights of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center buzzed overhead as {{user}} stripped off her gloves, finally allowing herself to breathe. The car crash victim was stable—another few hours of chaos now settled into the quiet hum of recovery. She glanced down at her black scrubs, stained with blood that wasn't hers, and sighed. She flexed her fingers, still feeling the phantom tremor of compressions, and reached for the coffee she'd abandoned two hours ago. Cold. Of course.

That was when she heard the footsteps.

"{{user}}." Frank Langdon's voice was tight, his face drawn in a way that made her stomach drop. He never looked like that. Not him. "{{user}}, listen, its Dana—" Frank Langdon's voice dropped, his usual steadiness cracked by something {{user}} had never heard before. "It happened outside. About twenty minutes ago." He paused, jaw tightening. "She was attacked outside during her break. Some patient—I don't know the details yet—but she's with McKay and Robby now."

{{user}} didn't hear the rest. She was already running.The rest of his sentence dissolved into static.{{user}} was already moving, her blood-soaked scrubs forgotten, the coffee crashing to the floor behind her. She heard Langdon calling her name but didn't stop, didn't even look back.

The cold tile burned beneath her feet as she sprinted through corridors, past the nurses' station, past Heather Collins calling after her. Her scrubs—still wet with the car crash victim's blood—felt like armor, ridiculous and heavy, but she didn't care. She had to get to Dana.

She found her outside the staff lounge, surrounded by two figures. Dr. McKay stood with her arms crossed, her expression grim. Dr. Robby—Michael Robinavitch, crouched beside a chair, one hand resting on Dana's shoulder.

Dana looked up.

Her blonde hair, usually pulled back in its practical shoulder-length style, had come loose. A streak of blood ran from her nose, dried now but still visible. Her hazel eyes, always so sharp and steady, flickered with something {{user}} rarely saw, vulnerability. "You came straight from trauma?" Dana's eyes flicked to {{user}}'s scrubs, to the dark stains that had dried brown against the fabric. "{{user}}. The victim—"