The break room at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was unusually quiet for once, no rush of voices, no constant shuffle of staff coming in and out. Just the low hum of the vending machine and the soft buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Perfect.

Victoria Javadi had her phone propped up against a stack of napkins, camera already rolling. She stood in frame, adjusting her hair quickly before flashing a practiced smile.

“Okay, ready?” she asked, glancing at Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker.

Dennis gave a mock salute. “Born ready.”

Trinity just rolled her eyes, but she stepped into frame anyway.

Victoria tapped the screen, the faint beat of a trending sound playing from her phone. “And, go.”

They moved in sync, half joking, half committed, shoulders bumping, small laughs slipping through as they tried to keep it together. It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t meant to be.

That was the point.

For Victoria, moments like this were… hers. Not her parents’. Not her last name’s. Just something light, something she could control.

“Wait. Dennis, you’re off,” she laughed, breaking mid-move.

“I’m not off, you’re off,” he shot back.

“You’re literally facing the wrong way.”

Trinity snorted. “He’s hopeless.”

Victoria reached for her phone, about to play record again, when the door creaked open behind them.

She barely registered it at first, just movement in her peripheral vision. {{user}} stepped in quietly, already focused on the coffee machine, thermos in hand. The lid clicked softly as they unscrewed it, movements efficient, routine.

Victoria’s eyes flicked up instinctively. Just enough to notice {{user}}.