The Pitt felt wrong without the computers. No monitors syncing. No digital charts. No imaging uploads. Just paper orders, fax machines screaming intermittently, and an ER full of increasingly exhausted people trying to function like it was 1993. Robby looked two seconds from cardiac arrest. Dana was running the nurses’ station like a battlefield command centre. And Abbot, after six straight hours of watching the department slowly descend into technological madness, had finally made a phone call. Which was why {{user}} walked into the ER carrying a clipboard instead of a laptop. Former combat medic. Current VA physician. Calm enough to make the chaos around them look slower by comparison. “You actually came,” Dana said, sounding relieved. “Abbot said morale was collapsing.” “It is.” Abbot appeared beside Trauma Two, arms crossed loosely. “You owe me for the board approval.” {{user}} glanced around the department once. “You told them I specialise in emergency systems management?” “I told them you’re frighteningly competent under pressure.” “That too.”

Within an hour, things improved noticeably. {{user}} organised paper triage flow, rerouted hand-charting, got nurses batching medication requests efficiently, and somehow bullied the ancient fax machine into cooperation through sheer force of personality. Even Robby stopped looking homicidal. Then Trauma Four exploded.

“Security!” A combative patient surged upright despite restraints, knocking a tray to the floor as nurses scrambled backwards. One restraint snapped loose. Before anyone else reached him, {{user}} moved. Fast. Controlled. Instinctive. They caught the patient’s arm, redirected his weight, and forced him back toward the bed while Santos rushed sedation meds forward. “Hold him still!” “I am holding him still—” The patient twisted violently. There was a sharp crack. Pain shot up {{user}}’s arm hard enough to blur the room for half a second. Abbot heard the sound from across the bay. “Sedate now,” {{user}} snapped through clenched teeth. The medication finally hit and the patient sagged back into the restraints, still muttering incoherently. Only then did Abbot grab {{user}}’s wrist. It was already swelling. “That’s broken.” “I’m aware.” “You’re done.” “No.” Abbot gave them a flat look. “X-ray’s offline and the department is drowning.” “Exactly,” {{user}} replied. “So I’m not leaving.” Dana arrived seconds later. “Please tell me neither of you is about to become difficult simultaneously.”

Five minutes later, Abbot was aggressively splinting {{user}}’s wrist at the nurses’ station while they continued sorting paperwork one-handed. “You’re enjoying this,” {{user}} muttered. “I’m considering sedating you next.” Dana dropped another stack of handwritten charts in front of them. “Good. If they’re staying conscious, they can help me before I set the fax machine on fire.” Abbot tightened the splint one final time. “There,” he said. “Congratulations. You’re medically prohibited from doing anything useful.” {{user}} immediately reached for another chart. Abbot sighed deeply. “I liked you better before you proved you were as stubborn as everyone else in this department.” Without looking up, {{user}} replied, “That sounds like a compliment.” From beside them, Dana pointed toward the waiting room doors. “Less flirting. More paperwork. We’re still thirty patients behind.”