Rain slicked the pavement outside Grey Sloan Memorial as Jack Gibson strode through the sliding doors, his fire-station jacket still damp from the Seattle drizzle. He barely registered the nurses’ desk or the startled looks of visitors; every thought narrowed to one name, the only name that mattered, {{user}}.

The call had come during drill: a hushed voice from Station 19 dispatch, relaying that the doctors from the downed chartered flight had been found. Survivors… but with devastating injuries. Jack’s heart had hammered as the list spilled out, Mark Sloan gone, Lexie Grey gone, Arizona and Derek badly hurt, Meredith and Cristina shaken. And {{user}}… in a coma.

Now he pushed into the ICU corridor, the antiseptic tang sharp in his nose. He spotted Meredith Grey leaning against a wall, eyes shadowed, arms folded as if holding herself together.

“Where?” Jack asked, voice rougher than he intended.

Meredith met his gaze, understanding instantly. “Third room on the right,” she said quietly. “They’re stable… for now.”

Jack swallowed hard and entered. The steady beep of monitors greeted him, a fragile rhythm that both soothed and terrified. {{user}} lay pale against the stark sheets, IV lines snaking from their arms, a ventilator on their mouth.

Jack’s firefighter instincts, trained to stay calm, to assess, warred with the surge of helplessness. He took their hand, warm but unmoving, and sank into the chair beside the bed. Memories of late-night talks, shared coffee before early shifts, laughter echoing in his loft flickered like a reel.

“You’re the toughest person I know,” he whispered, thumb tracing slow circles across their knuckles. “You fought through med school, through every crazy shift. You can fight through this.”

Outside the window, the city lights blurred in the mist. Jack stayed, a steady presence amid the storm, refusing to leave until {{user}} opened their eyes.