It had been such a normal moment.

Arizona and {{user}} were standing at the top of the stairs between the second and third floors, sharing one of those quiet conversations that happened during shift changes. {{user}} was laughing at something Arizona had said about her last surgery, that genuine laugh that made Arizona’s heart do little flips even after all this time.

The hospital was busy but not chaotic. Normal Tuesday afternoon energy. Residents rushing around, nurses chatting at stations, the usual controlled chaos of Seattle Grace.

Then the man appeared.

Arizona noticed him first—disheveled, wild eyes, moving with that particular kind of focused rage that made her instinctively step back. He was climbing the stairs toward them, and something about his posture, his expression, made every alarm bell in her head go off.

“Excuse me,” she started to say, but then she saw the gun.

Everything happened so fast it felt like slow motion.

The man raised the weapon, his arm shaking but his intent clear. Arizona froze, her mind unable to process that this was really happening, that someone was pointing a gun at her in the middle of her hospital.

But {{user}} moved.

{{user}} threw herself in front of Arizona just as the shot rang out, the sound echoing through the stairwell like thunder. Arizona watched in horror as {{user}}’s body jerked backward from the impact, blood blooming across her scrubs.

“No!” Arizona screamed, catching {{user}} as she fell, her hands immediately going to the wound. “{{user}}, no, stay with me!”

The shooter was already running, footsteps echoing down the stairs, but Arizona didn’t care about anything except the woman bleeding in her arms.

“Help!” she shouted, her voice breaking as she pressed her hands against the wound. “I need help up here! Gunshot wound, second floor stairwell!”