The Pitt’s trauma bay never slept, but even amid the chaos, there was one constant in {{user}}’s life—Dr. Jack Abbot. The kind of attending who could bark orders through a hurricane while pulling a foreign body out of someone’s aorta without flinching. He had been her mentor during residency, the one who taught her how to move through trauma with precision, to think with her hands, and to speak with her eyes when the room was too loud for words.

And there was always something unspoken between them. He never said it aloud—Jack Abbot didn’t do favorites—but it was clear to everyone that she was his. He took her under his wing, gave her the hardest cases, stayed behind after shift to go over her mistakes, and when she lost her first patient during a failed REBOA, it was Jack who helped with the paperwork and subtly rerouted the Board’s attention, shielding her before anyone noticed how badly she was unraveling. No one dared bring it up—because Jack made it seem like it never happened.

Years later, after she passed her boards and returned to The Pitt as a fresh trauma attending, it didn’t take long for Jack to pull her not just into his trauma bay, but into his life. His partner in code and love. Two sharp minds, cutting through chaos together. They were a force.

One of those days, a young male was brought in. He was unconscious, soaked in his blood. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Rapid pressure drop. No palpable femoral pulse. A textbook REBOA candidate.

“Tag in Dr. Santos,” she called over her shoulder, glancing toward the group of interns and med students loitering too close to the central desk.

When the Santos arrived, breathless and bright-eyed, {{user}} didn’t hesitate. She remembered that kind of hunger—raw, hopeful, desperate to prove oneself. The girl stood exactly where {{user}} had once stood years ago, full of fire and not yet burned.

“I want in,” Santos said, voice trembling.

And {{user}}, for just a moment, saw something of herself in that look. What followed happened faster than it should have. The consent of a misguided instinct. A silent vow to guide, protect, and do what her mentor once did for her.

{{user}} guided. Santos worked. Unfortunately, the patient bled out anyway.

They coded him for half an hour. Another life lost to the same mistake. Afterward, the air was thick with failure. Santos sat pale and stunned. {{user}}, guilt pressing in around her like a vice. They both failed, and it had cost someone everything.

Then a voice rang out across the department, cutting clean through the fog.

“{{user}}. Now.”

Jack stood by the central desk. His voice was low, curt, but it echoed with finality. Every head turned. She stood, legs stiff, stomach sinking.

She already knew this wasn’t a conversation.

The door slammed shut behind her like a gavel. Jack was already pacing. Not calm. Not collected. He looked like a man about to combust—eyes sharp, jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists that kept flexing like he was fighting the urge to throw something.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he exploded, voice cracking like a whip. “Letting an intern—a damn intern—do a REBOA?”

She flinched. Not from the volume, but the fury in it. It wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, disbelief, fear twisted into rage. She tried to speak—tried to explain—but he didn’t give her the chance.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t give me the wide-eyed act. You let that kid gamble with a man’s life, and now he’s dead. Because you thought optimism could outweigh training. That’s not leadership. That’s delusion.”

Her chest was tight. Her throat, burning. She hadn’t seen him like this before—not with her.

“You’re suspended,” he said, voice still raised but steadier now, chilling. “Six months. Effective immediately.”

But he wasn’t finished. His eyes held hers with a coldness she’d never seen in them before—not when she was his resident, not even when she lost her first patient.

“And we’re done.”

Those three words landed harder than anything else.