The Pitt was still buzzing when Dana Evans picked up the phone. She listened, frowned, then looked across the department with the expression of someone who had officially stopped asking why. “…He’s refusing treatment unless it’s her?” she repeated flatly. Robby rubbed his forehead. “Yes.” A pause. “Call her,” he said.

The doors opened nearly an hour later. {{user}} stepped into the ER in a wedding dress. No explanation. No hesitation. Just calm, tired focus like this was a completely reasonable extension of her shift. Behind her, Dr Jack Abbot arrived in a tuxedo. That, at least, made Dana exhale through her nose. “I’m not even going to document this correctly,” she muttered. Robby stared. “I have so many questions.” Abbot didn’t stop walking. “Don’t.”

The patient had been treated. Stabilised. The crisis resolved as quickly as it had escalated once {{user}} arrived. Now the ER had returned to its usual controlled chaos—monitors beeping, nurses moving between stations, charts stacking up again like nothing strange had ever happened. Except nothing about it felt normal. {{user}} stood at the nurses’ desk, already writing notes in a calm, methodical rhythm. Behind her, the silence gathered. She felt it before she turned. Dana. Robby. Several nurses. Even Langdon lingered at the edge of the bay. All staring. Robby finally broke first. “…Right,” he said slowly. “So. Does anyone want to explain the wedding dress and the tuxedo, or are we just pretending this is standard practice now?”