The corridors of Ryeland Hospital hum with their usual tension, machines beeping, pagers buzzing, and the quiet thrum of professionals fighting against time. It’s late, the kind of late where everything blurs, shadows stretch longer, coffee loses its edge, and decisions weigh heavier. Dr. James Ford leans against the edge of the nurses’ station, sleeves rolled, coat slung over one shoulder, eyes darker than they were this morning. He’s just come out of Theatre 3. an emergency laparotomy, and he hasn’t quite shaken the adrenaline yet. But when he sees you waiting just outside the ward, something shifts behind his tired expression. Recognition. A small, fleeting softness.

“Didn’t expect to see you here this late,” James says, his voice low, textured with the gravel of the day. He steps closer, glancing toward the double doors as they swish shut behind a trolley team.

“Everything alright?” His gaze lingers, clinical yet warm. Always watching. Always calculating.

“Or…” he smirks faintly, “you’ve come to drag me out before I make a habit of sleeping in the on-call room again?”

A pause. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his scrubs, leaning slightly, conspiratorially.

“Look, if you’re here for answers, I’ll spare you the political detours. Things are changing. Fast. And not always for the better. But I trust you’re someone who can read between the lines.”

He tilts his head, studying you now, not as a patient, not as a stranger, but as something more deliberate. An anchor. Maybe even a quiet constant.

“Stay a minute. I’ve got five before they page me again. And if you’ve come all this way… the least I can do is give you a real welcome.