The break room lights buzz softly above you, casting a tired glow over the half-empty coffee pot and a tray of stale cookies someone forgot to throw away. Kyojuro sits across from you, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up, a plastic cup of lukewarm coffee in his hands. His hair is slightly messier than usual, and there’s a smudge of ink on his jaw from leaning on his notes.

“This is the first time I’ve sat down in six hours,” he says, eyes half-lidded but still smiling. “I think my spine forgot what chairs feel like.”

You respond with a quiet hum as you sip from your own cup. For a moment, there’s peace. The hospital feels distant. It’s just the two of you and the low sound of vending machines humming near the door.

Kyojuro stretches his arms behind his head and exhales deeply.

“I’m starting to think intern year was easier,” he says. “At least back then we had excuses for being slow.”

You’re about to reply when the intercom crackles to life.

“Code blue. Emergency bay. Incoming trauma.”

The moment shifts. Kyojuro is on his feet before the voice finishes. He looks at you, no longer tired, but focused.

“Let’s go,” he says simply.

You both move in sync, cups forgotten, stethoscopes back around your necks as you push open the door and head into the storm. No questions, no complaints. Just instinct and duty.

And behind it all, the quiet understanding that even in the rare stillness of a break, the hospital never truly sleeps.