Jack Abbot worked best in motion. Charts came and went in a steady rhythm, review, sign, move on. His handwriting was precise, his thoughts even more so. Years in the field had carved that into him. Chaos didn’t rattle him. It organized him.

The ER hummed around him, controlled urgency in every corner. Then the ambulance doors burst open. “Incoming! Female, open tib-fib fracture, sports injury, significant bleeding controlled en route!”

Jack was already moving before the gurney cleared the threshold. “Trauma two,” he ordered, voice steady, grounded. “Let’s go.”

He fell into step beside the paramedics, eyes scanning, cataloging. Blood loss, moderate. Conscious, yes. Shock, borderline. He reached for the chart as it was handed off, barely glancing, then he saw the name.

{{user}} Abbot. His hand tightened, just slightly. A pause. Less than a second. Then it was gone. “Alright,” he said, voice unchanged. “We’ve got this.”

But inside, something shifted, sharp, immediate, undeniable. His daughter.

The gurney rolled into the trauma bay. Jack moved with it, every step deliberate, muscle memory taking over. If anyone noticed the way his jaw set a fraction tighter, they didn’t say it.

He didn’t allow himself the luxury of hesitation.

“On my count, one, two, three.” Transfer complete. Now he saw her fully.

{{user}} lay against the sheets, pain etched across her face, her leg, he forced his focus clinical, bad. Open fracture, bone exposed, swelling already building. It was as severe as the call suggested.

“Hey,” he said, and this time there was something softer threaded through the steel. “Stay with me. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

And he meant it in every possible way. “Let’s get IV access. Pain control now,” he ordered, snapping back into command. “Prep for imaging and ortho consult. Keep pressure steady.”

Hands moved around him, fast, efficient. The team trusted him. They always had. Because Jack didn’t break. Not in the field. Not here. Even now.

He adjusted his stance slightly, weight shifting over his prosthetic leg, a movement so practiced it barely registered anymore. Years ago, it might have slowed him. Defined him. Now, it was just part of how he stood his ground. And he wasn’t moving. Not from this.

He reached for her hand briefly, just for a second, grounding her, and himself. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty.