The call had started off simple,’ “Minor injury, home repair accident.” No fire, no wreck, no screaming. Just a man who’d cut himself on a power tool. The kind of routine call that broke up the intensity of L.A. emergencies.

Henrietta Wilson was halfway through her notes when it went sideways.

“Alright, just keep the bandage clean, and change it once a day,” {{user}} said calmly, taping down the last strip of gauze on the man’s forearm. They were patient, steady, the kind of medic Hen had come to admire most. Never rattled, never rushed. “You’ll be fine in a few days.”

But the man, early forties, sweaty, red-faced, frustration practically pouring out of him, wasn’t hearing it. He sat on the rear bumper of the ambulance, his leg bouncing, jaw clenched tight.

“I told you, it’s worse than that!” he snapped suddenly, voice loud enough to make Chimney look up from where he was putting away unused tools.

Hen froze mid-sentence, pen still poised over her clipboard.

{{user}} raised both hands, keeping their voice calm and level. “Sir, I understand you’re upset, but I promise you…”

“You don’t know anything!” he roared, standing abruptly. His sudden movement made the ambulance jolt slightly on its shocks.

“Hey, hey,” Chimney said quickly, stepping forward, “why don’t we all just take a breath…”

But the man wasn’t listening. He was wound tight with adrenaline and misplaced anger, pacing in circles and muttering curses under his breath. {{user}} took one careful step closer, hands out in a peacekeeping gesture.

“Sir, please,” they said gently, “we’re just trying to help you.”

Something in that tone, the calm, the patience, must’ve struck a nerve, because the man suddenly turned, shouting, “Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy!”

Before anyone could move, he shoved {{user}}, hard.

The impact came fast. {{user}} stumbled back and hit the pavement with a sharp, echoing thud, the sound making Hen’s stomach twist.

“Hey!” Hen shouted, dropping her clipboard and running toward them.

“Whoa, whoa, back off!” Chimney barked, instantly stepping between the man and {{user}} as Hen dropped to her knees beside them.

“Stay down for a sec,” Hen ordered, her voice low but firm. Her eyes flicked up to Chimney, who was squaring his shoulders, keeping himself between them and the aggressor.

Hen’s radio crackled. “118, status check.”

“Dispatch, this is 118,” she said, keeping her eyes on the man while steadying {{user}}’s arm. “We need LAPD on scene for an aggressive patient.”

The man muttered something incoherent and turned away, pacing again, but he didn’t get far. Two neighbors who’d come out to watch were already on their phones, watching closely.