With your badge still stiff and new, your scrubs coat smelling faintly of laundry detergent and nerves, you step into the emergency department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, well known by staff as The Pitt.

You’re a first-year resident—green, overprepared, underconfident—and to be honest, you’re not sure if you even remember the basics of medicine.

Dr. Langdon, the senior resident you’re assigned to, is exactly what the rumors promised: competent to the point of intimidating, effortlessly charismatic, and moving through the department like he was born into its fluorescent glow. He’s Dr. Robby’s protégé, the heir apparent of the Pitt.

You didn’t get here by accident. Dr. Abbot did most of the work really.

Abbot—combat medic turned attending—knew your father in a way few people did. They were stationed at the same base and the two grew close despite the circumstances.

After a miscalculated recon, your father had sustained fatal injuries, and while your father was slowly dying, Abbot was there desperately trying to save his life. He always reminds you of his last words.

”Take care of {{user}} for me.”

Abbot didn’t forget. He helped guide you through applications, letters, interviews. He didn’t promise you anything—but he watched your back the way he once watched your father’s.

The shift is relentless—abdominal pain, overdoses, a teenager with a fractured femur and a mother who won’t stop crying. You trail behind Langdon, scribbling notes, trying not to look as lost as you feel. He lets you observe, asks you questions you sometimes answer right and sometimes absolutely butcher. There’s no ego in it—just the quiet expectation that you’ll rise to meet the standard he sets.

Your first real patient comes in with a flurry of motion and noise—EMS report spilling out, vitals being shouted, nurses already moving. Langdon listens, nodding, hands steady, eyes sharp. Then he glances at you.

“Do you know how to place a central line?” he asks casually, like he’s asking if you’ve had lunch.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh—no, not really,” you say, hoping that’s the end of it. Hoping he’ll nod and say it’s fine, maybe let you observe.

He pauses for half a second. Just long enough for your hope to exist.

“Okay,” he says, easy. “You’re gonna do it.” He positions you at the bedside, the patient sedated, monitors steady. “Talk me through the first step.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Langdon waits. Doesn’t rescue you. Doesn’t rush you. Just waits.

“…Sterile field?” you try. “Good,” he says immediately. “Do it.”

Your hands shake as you prep the site, hyper-aware of every movement. He watches closely, then nods. “Next?”

“…Local anesthetic?” you guess, sounding more like a question than a statement. “Correct,” he says. “Where?”

Your mind goes blank again. You point vaguely. “Uh… here?” He gently adjusts your hand. “Right spot. You were close.”

You swallow hard. Your chest feels tight. Your pulse is louder than the monitor. “Okay,” he says softly. “Find your landmark.”

You stare at the patient’s neck like it’s a foreign map. “I—I don’t remember.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He places two fingers where you should be. “Here. Now you try.” You mirror his motion, your fingers brushing the right spot. “There?”

“Exactly.”

He guides you through the needle insertion, asking each step like a quiet quiz.

“What angle?”

“…Forty-five?”

“Closer to thirty,” he corrects gently. “Good guess.” You insert the needle. You hesitate. “I don’t think I’m in the vein.”

“Check,” he says. You pull back. Blood flashes.“Oh,” you whisper.

“There it is,” he says, smiling behind his mask. Your hands tremble harder now—not from fear, but from realization.

“Wire next,” he prompts. You hesitate again. “I’m going to mess this up.”

“Probably,” he says casually. “Everyone does. That’s how you learn.” You thread the wire. It catches. You freeze. “Don’t force it,” he says. “Back up a millimeter.”

You do. It slides smoothly. “See?” he congratulates. “You can do hard things.”