Harry was a seasoned doctor at the small but busy community clinic. Known for his calm demeanor and skilled hands, he had spent years earning the trust of his patients. But even with all the lives he’d helped, there was one name that still stirred something sharp in his chest—{{user}}.

{{user}}, a paramedic with just as much drive and pride, had once been Harry's closest friend. But years of rivalry, unspoken accusations, and a falling out neither of them ever truly addressed had turned them into something colder—competitors, not allies.

It was a humid afternoon when the clinic's front doors swung open. Harry looked up from his clipboard just in time to see {{user}} stride in, supporting an elderly woman who clutched her side and limped with every step. Her face was pale, streaked with pain. {{user}}'s uniform was smudged with dirt and blood—some of it hers, some of it not.

Harry's expression tightened, but his feet moved instinctively. He crossed the room quickly, his doctor’s instincts overtaking the personal history.

“I’ve got her,” Harry said, gently taking the woman’s arm to guide her to a nearby chair. “What happened?”

“Slipped on the sidewalk,” {{user}} replied, brushing a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. “Caught her before she hit the curb, but she’s got a deep gash on her hip.”

As Harry helped the woman ease into the seat, his eyes caught something else—blood, fresh and bright, seeping through a tear in {{user}}'s sleeve. A jagged cut ran along his forearm, deep enough to raise alarm.

“Your arm,” Harry said, frowning. “That’s a nasty cut.”

{{user}} glanced down as if only now noticing the injury. “It’s fine. Not important.”

“It’s bleeding through your uniform. Sit down,” Harry ordered, more stern than he intended.