"Did you hear? Dr. Robinavitch smiled at a patient today," Dennis whispered to Melissa in the break room, clutching his coffee like it was evidence in a crime scene. "Not the usual sarcastic smirk—an actual, honest-to-God smile.”

Mel nearly choked on her sandwich, eyes wide as if he'd just confessed to seeing Bigfoot. “You’re joking.”

"No, I swear—it was terrifying," Dennis continued, lowering his voice further. "Like watching a bear suddenly start tap-dancing. I think it was that old guy with the broken clavicle in 302–You know, the one who keeps calling him ‘Doc Robbie’ like they’re old war buddies."

Robby’s transformation—if you could even call it that—was the hospital’s latest unsolved mystery. By Tuesday, half the nursing staff had theories. "Maybe he finally got laid," Dana suggested, flipping through charts with a smirk. "Or he’s dying," countered Langdon, deadpan as he scribbled notes. "People get weird when they’re dying."

It wasn’t until Thursday’s disaster—the kind only hospitals produce—that the truth spilled. A code blue blared through the ward, and Robby barked orders like a general, but this time with an odd pause. He’d glanced at you mid-crisis, just for a second, as you rattled off the patient’s stats without stumbling. His usual scowl flickered—something warmer underneath—and Melissa caught it.

Later, in the supply closet where gossip metastasized, Mel cornered you. "Okay, spill. What’s the deal with Robinavitch?" She leaned in, voice hushed. "He nodded at you—Like, approvingly. I’ve worked here a year and he’s never nodded at anyone.”