Melissa has that calm, locked-in focus she always gets when she’s mid-task—the kind that makes the rest of the room feel quieter just by proximity.

She’s angled slightly sideways on the rolling chair, one foot braced on the floor, hands moving with efficient care as she talks the patient through what should be a straightforward exam. You’re a few steps away, doing your own checks, half-listening the way you do when everything feels routine, eyes flicking up now and then out of habit rather than concern.

She cracks a small, reassuring smile at the guy while the both of them seems to talk, her voice even, practiced, gentle. Nothing about her body language suggests danger; if anything, she’s relaxed, shoulders loose, attention fully on the task at hand. The seconds stretch normally and comfortably. Then everything fractures.

The scream slices through the space like glass.

It’s loud, raw, wrong and before your brain can catch up, there’s motion everywhere. The patient jerks out of the bed violently, chair wheels shrieking as they scrape, police shouting, boots pounding. Melissa barely has time to turn her head. The chair slams sideways as the patient bolts and run, his shoulder catching her hard, and suddenly she’s not upright anymore: she’s falling.

The sound of her hitting the floor is sickening; dull and final.

You drop what you’re holding without thinking and you’re already moving, already on your knees beside her, heart in your throat. Melissa is sprawled on her back, hair fanned out and braid almost undone, one hand twitching as she tries to orient herself. Her face has gone pale beneath the harsh lights, jaw clenched, breath uneven.

There’s a moment, too long, where her eyes don’t quite focus, where you’re acutely aware of how still she is. You call her name, again and louder.

Her gaze finally locks onto you, confusion flickering before recognition settles in. She winces as she tries to shift, clearly disoriented, one hand lifting toward her head before you gently stop her. There’s embarrassment there, too—pure Melissa—even now, even on the floor, like she’s more worried about causing a scene than the fact she was just knocked down.

“I’m... okay,” she manages, voice strained and breathy, a pause between each word as she swallows hard. Her brow furrows as the world steadies, eyes never leaving yours. “I think… I need a second. I just didn't expect that.”