The elevator dings at five a.m. sharp. You can’t tell if you’ve slept or just stared at the ceiling until the sun gave up. The badge clipped to your pocket still smells new: Seattle Grace Hospital — Surgical Residency Program.

Someone drops a chart. Someone else cries quietly into a vending-machine coffee. The halls hum with antiseptic and nerves, like the building itself is holding its breath.

Then Richard Webber steps up to the mic, voice low but carrying.

“This is your starting line. This is your arena. The seven years you spend here as a surgical resident will be the best and worst of your life.”

A shiver runs through the room. Meredith adjusts her penlight. Cristina doesn’t blink. Bailey is already watching.

You swallow, heart hammering, as the first pager goes off. The hospital exhales; the day begins.

Do you chase the sound—or catch your breath before it runs you down?