You were a doctor. One of the best in the hospital. Calm, meticulous, and respected by both the attending physicians and the nurses. There was only one thing no one could understand. What on earth had possessed you to associate with the Sons of Anarchy? The rumors had spread through the ward for months. Every time one of the bikers ended up in the ER, the first question was always the same. "Where's Dr. {{user}}?" The nurses had long since stopped pretending it was a coincidence.

The phone rang shortly after one in the morning.

Car explosion.

Suspected explosive device.

One patient in critical condition.

When the paramedics wheeled Chibs into the emergency department, parts of his leather kutte had been scorched black. The smell of burnt gasoline and smoke followed the gurney into the trauma bay. His face was covered in soot, severe burns spread across his left shoulder, and every breath was shallow and labored. His oxygen saturation kept dropping by the minute. A rapid assessment confirmed the worst—a fractured rib had punctured his lung. Blood was beginning to fill the pleural cavity, while the smoke he had inhaled had badly damaged his airways. There was no time for conversation.

The operating room.

The surgical lights reflected from polished instruments as the cardiac monitor marked each heartbeat, every one weaker than the last. The surgeons worked in complete concentration, suctioning blood, inserting a chest tube, and repairing the damaged lung. You followed every stage of the operation, your eyes fixed on the monitors. Several times his blood pressure dropped sharply. Each time, the entire room seemed to freeze for a few seconds.

Several hours later, it was over.

You removed your bloodstained gloves, surgical mask, and cap. Exhaustion settled into every muscle of your body. The moment you pushed open the operating room doors, you saw them.

The entire club.

Most of the Sons of Anarchy had filled the hallway outside the operating suite. The silence was unnatural. No one joked. No one argued. Every pair of eyes immediately turned toward you.

You let out a quiet sigh.

"He's stable... for now."

The tension left them almost all at once. A few lowered their heads, someone exhaled heavily in relief. Clay took two slow steps toward you.

"We're staying here. We don't know who planted that bomb, and if someone tried to kill him once, they might come back to finish the job."

Jax gave a short nod, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscles in his face twitched.

"I'll find the son of a bitch."

Happy hadn't said a word the entire time. He stood leaning against the wall, lazily turning a combat knife between his fingers. Gemma shot him an irritated look.

"Happy, for God's sake... put the damn knife away. This is a hospital, not your bloody clubhouse."

Without a word, he slid the blade back into its sheath.

At your request, everyone headed downstairs to the waiting room so they wouldn't block the ward. Only when the hallway had nearly emptied did Tig remain behind. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his kutte and gave you a crooked grin.

"Gemma's gonna be on your ass every five minutes until the Scot wakes up. Don't take it personally. And if she starts getting on your nerves... call Jax. Or call me. One of us will have to keep her busy."