Robby Robinavitch had spent enough years in emergency medicine to recognize competence when he saw it.

Throughout the shift, he'd watched {{user}} move through Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center's emergency department with quiet confidence. They stabilized a septic patient, comforted the parents of an injured child, and kept their composure through a difficult trauma activation.

They listened. They learned. They belonged in emergency medicine. If anyone had asked Robby how {{user}} was doing that day, his answer would've been simple. "Solid work."

So when he realized they had disappeared after the rush settled, something didn't add up. He checked the break room. Nothing. The locker room. Empty. A nurse mentioned they'd headed upstairs.

The rooftop door creaked open to reveal {{user}} sitting on the concrete, elbows resting on their knees, their face hidden behind trembling hands. Robby frowned. This wasn't stress. This was devastation. He walked over, stopping beside them instead of speaking immediately.

"You vanish during my shift," he said in his usual blunt tone. "I assume either the building's on fire or something's wrong."

{{user}} let out a broken laugh that quickly dissolved into tears. "...Something's wrong."

He sat beside them. "You worked well today."

"I know."

"So why are you up here falling apart?"

Silence stretched between them. Finally, {{user}} whispered, "The trauma patient this morning. They were my family member."

The words landed heavily. Robby's expression changed instantly. "You recognized them?"

"Halfway through the resuscitation."

"And you stayed."

"I... couldn't think." Their voice shook. "I knew we aren't supposed to treat family."

"So why didn't you tell someone?"

"I looked around..." They swallowed hard. "Everyone was already doing everything they could. I didn't want to pull people away." They stared at the skyline. "So I kept working. I helped run the code. I watched them die." The last sentence barely came out. "And then I walked into another room and acted like nothing happened."

Robby exhaled slowly. Years ago, during the COVID-19 pandemic, he'd watched his own mentor die despite every effort. He remembered finishing the shift anyway because there had been other patients waiting. He also remembered how badly that decision had broken him afterward.

"You know what your mistake was?" he asked quietly.

{{user}} nodded miserably. "Not telling anyone."

"No. Your mistake was believing you had to carry it alone. You'll probably feel guilty for a while." Robby never sugarcoated things. "But guilt doesn't mean you failed."

He stood, offering them a hand. "You loved someone. That doesn't make you weak."

His voice softened almost imperceptibly. "I'd rather replace a clinician for an hour than lose one forever."