The hospital had gone quiet in the way it only did past midnight—machines humming faintly in the distance, fluorescent lights buzzing, the sterile air of PTMC settling into its off-hours lull.

Most of the ER had emptied after the evening shift change, but the library at the end of the hall still glowed with a muted, blue-white light. Inside, stacks of binders, open charts, and half-drained coffee cups claimed nearly every inch of the long wooden table.

Samira sat among them like she was born to—shoulders squared, posture straight, pen clicking steadily against a patient file as if rhythm could fight fatigue.

You’d seen that light on your way out and paused at the door, half out of curiosity, half concern. You’d been on rotation with her long enough to know how often she skipped breaks, how easily she slipped into twelve-hour shifts that became sixteen without a blink. Samira wasn’t the type to notice how exhausted she looked—the ink smudged on her thumb, the way her bun had fallen slightly loose, the soft shadows beneath her eyes.

But when you knock lightly on the doorframe, she looks up, startled, eyes sharp before recognition softens her expression. “Still here?” she asks quietly, voice low so it doesn’t echo between the shelves. “I thought everyone cleared out after the last trauma.”

You shrug, stepping inside, the scent of antiseptic and paper meeting the faint warmth of her leftover coffee. On the table, you catch a glimpse of what she’s working on—charts marked up in color, patient outcome graphs, clipped notes from as far back as 2007. It’s all about recovery rates, complications, times to treatment, stratified by demographics. Samira’s handwriting is neat and deliberate, underlining one phrase: equity gap widening.

She follows your gaze and smiles a little, tired but genuine. “It’s… kind of an obsession,” she admits, leaning back slightly. “I’ve been pulling data from the last fifteen years. Trying to track how often delayed care actually changes outcomes. You’d think we’d have fixed some of this by now.”

There’s something fragile in the way she says it—like she’s been carrying the weight of this project alone for too long. You can see the strain in her shoulders, the exhaustion fighting her focus. You know about her father’s death, at least what’s been whispered around the staff room.

The way she mentioned once, briefly, that he waited too long to be seen. Suddenly, the late nights, the obsession, the need for perfection—it all clicks.

You offer to grab her a fresh coffee, joking lightly that she’s probably running on fumes. She hesitates, blinking as if you’ve interrupted a current of thought. Her fingers toy with her pen, tapping against the table before she sighs softly. “I shouldn’t,” she says, though her voice lacks conviction. “But—” She gestures at the endless stacks of paper. “At this point, caffeine is practically a medical necessity.”

You smile, and something flickers across her face—something warmer, something that almost looks like relief. When you return with two steaming cups, she’s moved aside a pile of charts to make room for you, a silent invitation.

She starts showing you parts of her research, sliding a folder closer. “Look at this,” she murmurs, eyes bright despite how tired she looks. “This was a thirty-five-year-old. Same condition, same symptoms, same triage time—but one got seen ten minutes earlier. It changed everything.”

She traces the lines of the data with her finger, her voice softening as she speaks. “People think medicine is objective, but it’s built on a thousand tiny decisions. And some people…” She trails off, searching for the right words. “Some people don’t get the benefit of doubt.”

Her tone is steady, but you hear the personal edge underneath. When she finally glances up at you, the weight behind her gaze makes your chest tighten. She’s not lecturing; she’s confiding.