Dr. Robby Robinavich had just pulled off his gloves, still stained with drying blood, as he stepped away from a stabilized patient in Trauma Room 12. It had been a long shift—grueling, chaotic—but the kind he thrived in. His adrenaline was finally dipping when the hospital intercom cracked to life.

"Code White. Room 027. Code White."

Robby froze mid-step. Code White. Violent patient who was threatening to hurt staff.

The tone of the call wasn’t panicked—it was urgent.

He was already moving before the second announcement came, striding down the corridor past nurses, a med cart, and an anxious-looking intern.

As he rounded the corner toward Room 027, he saw it.

A storm of shouting. A half-dozen staff trying to de-escalate. A chair overturned. And in the middle of it, an intoxicated man—mid-30s, shirtless, eyes wild and unfocused—had just clocked a resident doctor so hard he dropped to the floor.

“Back the hell off!” the patient screamed, fists raised like he was in a bar brawl.

Two security guards tried to intercept, but the man was wired—swinging wildly and getting in one or two lucky hits. Another nurse ducked just in time.

Robby didn’t hesitate.

"HEY!" His voice cracked like thunder, sharp and unmistakable.

The patient turned toward him, wide-eyed.

Robby stepped in, not with brute force, but with a deliberate, controlled presence. He knew the line—one step too far and it became a legal nightmare, but one step too soft and people got hurt.

“Put your hands down and get on the bed. Now.” His voice was calm, steel beneath velvet.

The man took a half-step forward, still seething. “Who the hell are you?”

Robby didn’t blink. “The guy who’s going to keep you from waking up in a holding cell or an ICU. Your call.”

A tense beat.

The man wavered. Bloodshot eyes darting around the room, sizing up security and the fire in Robinavich’s stance. Eventually, rage cracked just enough for exhaustion to slip through.

He dropped his fists.

The guards took over, securing the situation quickly with restraints while nurses rushed to check the injured doctor. Robby crouched beside him, feeling for a pulse and checking his pupil response.

“He’ll be okay,” Robby muttered. “Might need a CT, but he’s breathing steady.”

As the room settled, Robby stood, jaw tight, knuckles white from clenching.

The ER was chaotic enough without fists flying.