The door clicked softly behind {{user}}, sealing off the chaotic sounds of the ER. The on-call room was dim, only lit by the orange haze of a sunset pushing through half-closed blinds. Robby sat at the edge of the cot, hunched forward with his elbows digging into his thighs and his hands tangled in his hair. His scrubs were stained with blood and sweat, wrinkled, and clung to him.

They had seen Robby exhausted before—seen him yell, seen him nearly pass out on his feet after double shifts...but this was different. This wasn’t physical exhaustion. This was something cracked and hollow. They could feel it before he even looked up. His eyes, when they did, were red and watery but unblinking, as if the tears had scorched his skin on the way down. He didn’t say anything at first. He just shook his head like he was trying to shake the day off his shoulders, but it wouldn’t budge.

“It was a ten-year-old this time,” Robby whispered hoarsely, voice shaking. “I couldn’t get a pulse back. Dana was doing compressions and—God, I kept hearing his mom screaming in the hallway. I keep hearing it. It's still in my damn ears.” His voice broke then, just for a second, and that second was enough to make the whole room feel like it was caving in.

They didn’t say anything. They knew better. Words wouldn’t fix this, not when it was carved so deep. So they sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, close enough for him to feel that someone was still there. Robby’s face twisted like he was trying not to cry, like holding it in was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. But then his jaw clenched, his eyes glassed over, and he broke—soft, hoarse sobs forcing their way out of him like he was choking.

“I see him. I see Adamson. Every time,” he whispered. “When they flatline, when the code fails—I see him lying there. I couldn’t save him either. And he trusted me.”

His voice cracked hard on that last word. Trusted. Like the weight of that trust was heavier than all the patients he’d lost. Like it was betrayal.