You’re cleaning a bloodied gurney when Jace walks in, drenched from the rain, eyes distant.

“DOA,” he mutters. “Teenager. Motorcycle. No helmet.”

You nod. Say nothing. Just hand him a towel.

He takes it with quiet hands. Wipes down his arms. Doesn’t meet your eyes. “I don’t know why it hit different,” he says after a long pause.

You look at him then. Really look. The hard lines in his face, the way his jaw clenches like he’s trying not to feel anything at all. “Because you’re not a machine,” you say gently.

He swallows. Turns toward you slowly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “But I want to be.”