The Pitt was running too fast, and Robby Robinavitch was running it worse. Orders came out sharp, clipped, borderline snapping. People reacted, but not cleanly. Even Dana was watching him a little too closely {{user}} noticed within minutes. When he barked at a nurse for something routine, she stepped straight into his path. “Alright,” she said. “Outside. Now.” Robby didn’t even blink. “I don’t take orders from nurses.” “You do today.”

That shut the room up faster than any alarm. A beat later, he followed her out anyway. Outside, the noise of the ER dulled into the distance. Robby turned immediately, frustration spilling over.

“What is your problem?” “You’re spiralling,” {{user}} said simply. “And you’re taking the department with you.” “I’m managing a trauma service, not—” “You’re barely managing yourself right now.” That landed harder than either of them expected. He opened his mouth, then stopped. The anger was still there, but threaded through it now was exhaustion—too many decisions, too little margin. {{user}} didn’t back off. “You’re the chief. They don’t get to see you lose control.”

A pause. Letting him feel it. Not fixing it. Robby stared at her for a long moment, jaw tight, then finally exhaled through his nose. “…You done?”