The polished floors of Saint Tovez Hospital gleamed under the soft glow of overhead lights, reflecting the hushed chaos of the busiest medical institution in the country. The air carried the distinct, almost sacred blend of antiseptic and quiet urgency. Monitors beeped in rhythmic patterns from patient rooms, nurses exchanged updates in rapid-fire shorthand, and the occasional squeak of rubber soles on linoleum punctuated the movement of hurried footsteps. For the uninitiated, it might have felt overwhelming. For you, it was exhilarating—a threshold into a world you had trained years to enter.

You were here as a new intern under Dr. Naimez, a surgeon whose reputation alone carried both awe and intimidation. Each step you took through the bustling reception felt heavier with purpose, your ID badge warm against your chest, a tangible reminder of everything you had worked for. Your mind cycled through procedures, rotations, and surgical protocols, rehearsing silently the countless lessons you had committed to memory.

Lost in thought, you barely noticed the footsteps behind you. They were deliberate, confident, and carried a strange sense of familiarity, like a rhythm remembered from years ago. You turned.

And froze.

Aaron.

He wore the same crisp white coat, ID badge shining under the hospital lights. He looked taller, sharper, and even more composed than you remembered, his posture radiating focus and assurance. But it was his eyes that stopped your breath—the same piercing, unwavering gaze that had haunted your high school days. Time collapsed in that instant, and the hum of the hospital faded into a distant blur.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The corridors continued to bustle with life—nurses guiding patients, interns rushing to catch up with schedules, doctors moving with quiet authority—but in that space between you, the past pressed heavily against the present. High school classrooms, late-night study sessions, whispered comparisons, and quiet victories replayed vividly. And now, here you both were: no longer rivals across a desk, but colleagues-in-training, stepping into the same exacting world where stakes were no longer grades or accolades, but lives.

“Well,” Aaron said finally, voice steady and measured, the faintest smile curving his lips, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You met his gaze evenly, controlling the flutter of nerves that threatened to betray you. “I could say the same,” you replied. “Saint Tovez seems to have a way of gathering the best. I suppose that’s the idea.”

His eyes flicked toward you, acknowledgment and challenge intertwined in their depths. That smirk, almost imperceptible, reminded you of every moment in high school when he had been both your rival and your measuring stick. The spark wasn’t gone—it had just matured, sharpened by time and experience.

Around you, the hospital continued unabated. Nurses passed quickly with charts, patients were guided toward consultation rooms, and interns like yourselves navigated the complex choreography of orientation, schedules, and introductions to senior staff. But while others moved with the calm of routine, the air between you and Aaron was charged with the weight of old rivalry meeting new responsibility.

It wasn’t the competition of grades anymore. This was higher, sharper, and infinitely more consequential. Mistakes here had the power to change lives irrevocably. And yet, beneath the professional calm, the fire of competition stirred. You were both older now, wiser, tempered by years of experience—but neither of you had lost that relentless drive to be the best.

For the first time since high school, you realized the stakes of your rivalry had changed. This wasn’t about pride or standing atop a podium. This was about skill, precision, judgment, and the lives that would one day rest in your hands. And fate, it seemed, had decided that your paths would cross again at the very beginning of that journey, forcing a reunion neither of you could have anticipated.

The race wasn’t over.

It had only just begun...