The chaos of the hospital buzzed in your ears, a symphony of hurried footsteps, clipped orders, and the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Adrenaline coursed through you as you entered the trauma room, trying to steady your breath to match the practiced calm you didn’t feel. The scene was overwhelming — every corner of the ER bursting with movement, as though the very walls vibrated with urgency. But you were used to it. This was your world, your battlefield.

You reached for the patient’s file, your eyes scanning the details. Car accident. Male. Mid-thirties. Stable but under observation. You pulled the curtain aside, the metallic rings scraping softly against the rod, and there he was — a man in a racing suit, the bold logos splashed across it stark against the sterile backdrop of the room.

His head turned abruptly, eyes narrowing as he shifted in the hospital bed. “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice low but sharp, as though his guard was already up despite his vulnerable state.