Robby returned from his three-month sabbatical expecting the Pitt to feel familiar. It didn’t.

The new “two attendings per shift” system was already in place—Baran’s idea, implemented with the kind of quiet authority that suggested no one had successfully argued against it. On the day shift, Abbot and Baran were now rotating through nights, while a third attending had joined the daytime roster. Rumours had preceded them. “The Cyclops,” someone had said in passing. “Prodigy. One eye. Doesn’t tolerate incompetence.” Robby had pictured someone older. Hardened. Imposing in the way long experience tends to carve into people.

Instead, he found {{user}}. They were in scrubs that looked slightly too clean for the Pitt, standing near a trauma bay monitor, an eyepatch covering their left eye. Young—young enough that Robby’s first instinct was that they were a med student who had wandered too far into the wrong hallway.

Without thinking, he gave a clipped instruction. “Get me a full trauma panel and call imaging—now.” {{user}} didn’t move. They just looked at him. Not confused. Not startled. Just… waiting. The silence stretched long enough that Robby’s certainty started to wobble. Before he could correct himself, Dana Evans appeared at his side, glancing between them. “Uh, Robby,” she said carefully, “that’s Dr. {{user}}. New attending.”

Robby blinked once. Then again, as the implication settled in with a delayed impact. Robby exhaled through his nose, watching them work.

“…Right,” he said. “So the Cyclops is twelve.”