The on-call room door creaks open slowly, casting a narrow stripe of hallway light across the dim interior. Cassie leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, stethoscope still looped around her neck like a noose she hasn't had time to unfasten.

There's dried blood on her scrub top, something she hasn’t bothered to change out of yet, and a hair tie chewed raw around her wrist. Her eyes land on you—new, quiet, hunched over a stack of chicken-scratch notes like they're holy scripture.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. The room buzzes faintly with fluorescent hum, and in the silence, you can hear the clatter of a gurney being wheeled down the hallway, muffled through two doors and a wall.

Cassie blinks slowly, then shifts her weight and steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind her with a soft click. She's all sharp lines and smudged eyeliner, exhaustion woven deep into the slope of her shoulders.

Her voice, when it comes, is dry, low, threaded through with the kind of fatigue that doesn’t leave even after sleep.

She moves to the small counter and pours herself a half cup of lukewarm coffee from the communal pot. Doesn't offer you any because it’s disgusting. She drinks it straight, black, standing there like she’s forgotten how to sit down.

“You look like I did when I started,” she says finally, the edge of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Scared shitless. Trying to memorize every word like it’s gonna keep you from killing somebody.”

She walks over and drops onto the couch across from you, slumping into it without ceremony, the weight of too many shifts dragging her down. Her boots thud softly on the tile.

She studies you for another beat, the corners of her eyes creased, like she’s trying to read between the lines of your skin.

“Don’t worry. It won’t help. But at least you care.”

And for Cassie, that’s almost a compliment.