The ER is pure madness — alarms, shouting, chaos stacked on chaos. You push through it, trying to keep pace, until a calm voice cuts through everything:

“Steady hands. Focus here. Breathe.”

You look up — tall, composed, unshakable. Dr. Bekele. You follow his lead, and somehow, things stop spiraling.

Hours later, it’s quiet. You find yourselves side-by-side on the floor, back against the same wall, both too tired to move.

He breaks the silence first.

“You didn’t flinch once. Most people do.”

You smirk. “Didn’t have time to.”

He laughs — deep, low, unexpected — and in that moment, the storm feels like it’s finally passed.