The trauma bay reeked of iron and urgency. Sirens blurred into overhead announcements, and chaos moved like a pulse through the walls. In the middle of it, Abbot worked in cold, clinical rhythm—scalpel, suction, clamp—his hands moving faster than the room could process.

At his side was {{user}}, the only resident he allowed to stand in with him during trauma codes. The others had long since learned that “You’re not her” was his harshest evaluation.

However, when a child, maybe six, was brought in, bleeding out from a torn femoral artery. There wasn’t enough time to wait for vascular. Abbot was still across the room stabilizing a GSW to the chest.

She had no time to think. So she moved.

Without presenting her case, she grabbed the clamp, made the call, applied pressure, and got the artery sealed. When Abbot stepped over, his eyes flicked down once. Then again. His gloved hand hovered for a second above hers. “You did it,” he muttered. His voice was low. Final. Approval, distilled.

The kid lived.

Only hours later did the fallout hit. The conference room was quiet, clinical—too clean for what it held. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Papers shuffled. No one spoke first.

The chief of surgery skimmed the report. "A second-year resident made a surgical call typically reserved for attending-level judgment. That’s an overstep."

Abbot didn’t move from where he stood. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, voice low. “It wasn’t an overstep. It was a necessity.”

A different voice chimed in. “And you’re telling us you authorized that decision in the moment?”

“No. I didn’t have to. She knew what needed to be done.”

“She’s a resident.”

“She’s my resident,” he replied, calm and final. “The only one I work with for a reason. Because she’s the only one who doesn’t waste time asking for permission when someone’s dying in front of her.”

A murmur passed through the panel.

“If you suspend her, I walk.”

One of them scoffed. “That’s an emotional threat—"

His eyes went dead cold. “No. That’s a guarantee.”