The trauma bay reeked of blood, antiseptic, and tension. Monitors beeped erratically, and the patient on the gurney—mid-40s, male, heavily intoxicated—was thrashing and shouting every profanity in the book. His left leg was mangled from a motorcycle crash, and he was fighting treatment like it was a personal attack.

Dr. Frank Langdon stood over him, gloves on, brow tight with irritation. He had seen his fair share of combative patients, but this one was running on a special brand of belligerent.

"Hold still or you're going to lose the whole damn leg," Langdon snapped, voice level but clipped.

"Go to hell, you smug bastard!" the patient barked, flailing again. A kidney tray clattered to the floor.

Langdon closed his eyes for half a second, jaw tightening. He inhaled once, slow and controlled, then turned toward the doorway.

“Can someone who’s not dealing with a Code Blue give me a hand in here?” he called out. “Preferably someone with a thick skin and quick reflexes.”

Nurse Kayla poked her head in, already tugging on gloves. “I’m free. Want me to sedate him?”

“If we can do it without turning this into a lawsuit, yes. He’s refusing pain meds but not refusing to scream at the top of his lungs. That’s a contradiction I don’t have time to untangle.”

Kayla gave him a half-smile, stepping in. “I’ve got your back, Doc.”

Langdon returned his focus to the leg. "Thank God. Before I say something HR would make me apologize for."

The patient launched into another tirade, but this time Langdon ignored it entirely. With skilled, efficient movements, he worked through the damage while Kayla helped steady both the limb and the situation.

Frustration simmered under his calm exterior, but Langdon knew better than to let it win. He wasn’t here for thanks. He was here to save the ungrateful as much as the grateful. That was the job. That was the code.

“We need more help here!”