the pitt wasn’t quiet. not that it ever was, and it was probably never going to be.

triage had blurred into chaos hours ago, and you'd been sitting in the waiting room long enough to start memorizing the stain patterns in the carpet.

a nurse finally calls your name. her tone says she’s been asked to move bodies fast, not offer bedside manners. “exam four,”she instructs with the tiniest of smile, gesturing vaguely toward the curtain. “the doctor will be in soon.”

the curtain doesn’t close all the way.

a few minutes pass before you hear the clatter of a clipboard and the soft scrape of a rolling stool being dragged into position. the woman who enters isn’t in a white coat. just a purple sweat with the sleeves rolled on top of black scrubs, an ID badge half-flipped on her lanyard, and a the faint smell of perfume.

she doesn’t meet your eyes right away. she's looking at your chart, at the vitals on the monitor, at anything else. “alright,” she starts, voice pitched just above neutral. a little tight. a little too professional. “looks like you’ve been here a while— sorry about the delay. let’s get this done quickly for you, yeah?”

“oh. okay.” you say quietly.

she’s already pulling gloves on, her eyes flicking across you with mechanical focus. she doesn’t sit, not yet. just hovers nearby, pen in hand like she might need to jot something down at any second. but then, she glances at your face. just for a moment. and that fast rhythm she entered with stalls, like a scratched record skipping into silence. she sees something. something that wasn’t written in the chart or captured by the vitals. something human, and not just physical.

she hesitates. then slowly sits down on the stool. hands still. shoulders lower. “shit…” she murmurs under her breath, just barely audible, a wince folding into her brow. “i’m sorry. that was too fast. that’s not how i like to do things.”

this time when she looks at you, it’s you she sees. trinity sets the clipboard aside and folds her hands. leans in slightly — not invasive, but close enough to offer you real attention.

“it says in your chart that you’re fifteen and here for a woman issue?” she asks, gentler now. “are your parents aware that you’re here?”