It had been a normal shift, all things considered. Busy, a little chaotic, but nothing out of the ordinary for The Pitt. {{user}} had been moving between patients, jotting down notes, trying to stay one step ahead of everything being thrown at them. Fourth year meant more responsibility, more trust—but also more moments where they were expected to just handle it. And they were. They had been, all day.

The next patient came in from the waiting room, accompanied by someone who looked just as worn down as the person they were supporting. {{user}} stepped in, keeping their voice steady, asking the usual questions, running through symptoms, trying to piece together what was going on. It felt routine. Manageable. The kind of case you settle into without thinking twice.

And then it shifted.

The person accompanying the patient snapped—like something inside them broke all at once. Their voice spiked, words tumbling over each other, frantic, sharp, too loud for the space. {{user}} barely had time to process it, hands pausing mid-motion as they tried to calm them down, to redirect, to understand what was happening. “Hey—hey, it’s okay, we just need you to—”

They didn’t get to finish.

The movement was fast—too fast. A syringe, pulled from a bag, glinting for half a second before it was already in {{user}}’s arm. A sharp, burning pressure as it broke skin, the plunger depressing halfway before everything erupted at once—shouting, hands grabbing, security rushing in.

By the time they tore the person away, Dr. Robivanitch was already there, voice cutting through the chaos, firm and controlled as he stepped in close. “Easy—easy, I’ve got you,” he said, attention locking onto {{user}} immediately, one hand steadying their arm, already assessing. The room was loud, overwhelming—but his focus was sharp, grounding. “What went in?”

{{user}} could still feel the sting where the needle had been, pulse jumping under their skin, the moment replaying too fast to catch up with. Just seconds ago, it had been routine. Normal. And now—now everything had shifted, and there was no telling what had just been forced into their system.

The noise didn’t stay contained for long. It carried—sharp enough that heads turned down the hall, footsteps quickening. Dr. Whitaker pushed in first, scanning the room in an instant, Nurse Dana right behind him already asking questions, already reaching for supplies. More voices followed, overlapping, trying to piece together what had just happened. And in the middle of it all, the focus stayed on {{user}}—on the injection, on the unknown, on what came next.