Night had fallen completely over Forks, and the hospital remained awake under white lights that never flickered. In his office at the end of the main hallway, Carlisle Cullen sat with his back straight, a lamp shining on the neat pile of files in front of him.

Human bustle hummed beyond the closed door: hurried footsteps, the distant squeak of a gurney, the nervous murmur of family members trying to remain calm. To anyone else, it was simply hospital noise. To him, it was a constant pulse. Hearts beating with admirable fragility, blood flowing with a warmth that did not belong to him.

He held the pen with impeccable precision, filling in the details of one of his patients with clear, methodical handwriting. Diagnosis, treatment, observations. Each word written was a silent promise of control, of balance, of chosen humanity.

A gust of wind gently hit the window. It didn't distract him; nothing did. He had spent centuries perfecting that stillness.

Then, three firm knocks echoed on the door.

Not hurried, urgent.

Carlisle looked up. He didn't need to know any more. The rhythm behind those footsteps across the hall had changed. An uneven heartbeat, several, in fact. The tension seeped under the crack like invisible electricity.

“Dr. Cullen, we need help. It's an emergency.”

He stood up with the same calmness with which he had been writing. He closed the file, aligning it with the rest before heading for the door. The hubbub in the hallway became clearer when he opened it: rapid footsteps, broken commands, the rustling of fabric and metal.

“I'll be right there,” he replied in a firm voice, already moving forward.