The day had already been bad when the first Pitt Fest shooting victim came through the doors. By the third ambulance, it was chaos. By the seventh, the ER was drowning.

Doctor Robby Robinavich moved on pure instinct, stabilizing one patient, calling out orders for another, weaving between bays that were already overflowing. The air reeked of blood, antiseptic, and fear. Every bed was full, the hallways lined with gurneys, the monitors screaming for attention no one had to spare.

In the blur of motion, he caught sight of {{user}}. They were a flash of movement, darting from room to room, gloving up, assessing, moving on. Robby could see the tightness in their jaw, the wear in their eyes. Everyone was stretched to their limit, but {{user}} looked like they’d been carrying a weight twice as heavy as the rest.

He wanted to stop them, to say something, anything, but there was no time. Another patient rolled in, and the cycle began again.

As he worked, he kept them in his periphery, silently willing them to hold on. This was the kind of day that could break even the strongest. And Robby wasn’t about to let it break them.