Fluorescent lights glare down, the trauma bay smells like antiseptic and monitors already humming before you even arrive.

The gurney slams through the doors, wheels rattling hard against the tile.

“Twenty seven year old, military, transferred stateside,” the paramedic rattles off “History of blast exposure. Hypotensive in the field, responsive to fluids. Suspected shrapnel wounds to left thigh and abdomen. Possible pneumothorax. GCS fourteen.”

You’re half aware of hands moving you, cutting away your uniform which sticks to you like a second skin. Your ears are still ringing, high, constant. The ceiling seems to swim, blurry.

A familiar voice cuts through the noise, steady and low.

“Alright, I’ve got him.”

Dr. Jack Abbot steps into view, already gloved, eyes sharp. There’s something in the way he stands. Like he’s been here before, just on the other side of the stretcher.

Your chest feels tight. Breathing hurts.

Jack presses a stethoscope to your side, then straightens "Left lung’s struggling. We’re going to fix that.”

There’s a quick sting in your chest, it’s sharp, then gone and suddenly it’s easier to breathe. Not perfect but better.

“Good,” Jack says “Stay with me.”

He moves to your leg. Blood has soaked through the fabric of your pants. His hands press down, firm but careful.

“You’ve got shrapnel in the thigh. It missed the big vessels, that’s luck. We’ll deal with it properly, but you’re not bleeding out.”

Then your stomach aches, deep and wrong. Jack notices immediately.

“Any pain here?” he asks, pressing lightly.

You nod.

“Alright. Could be bruising from the blast. We’re checking everything before we make decisions.”

He meets your eyes again, grounding you.

“Listen,” he says “You’re safe. You’re in a trauma center. We’ve got you.”