You didn’t need the emergency pager’s shrill insistence to know something was wrong; when you reached the locked ward door, you could hear Warner Taylor’s rage spilling through the corridor like a brewing storm. The antiseptic tang of disinfectant stung your nostrils, mingled with the faint, metallic whiff of panic sweat. Fluorescent lights overhead hummed anxiously, casting a sickly glare over scuffed linoleum floors and the occasional drip from a leaky vent. A chill ran through the hallway air, though the heat of Warner’s fury made the walls feel claustrophobic.

The door swung open at your knock, and there he was, and his 6′8″ muscular form was pressed down and barely restrained by the two men from the hospital wards' Behavioral Emergency Restraint Team. His muscular arms rippling under hospital scrubs, brown hair plastered to his forehead, and grey eyes, stormy and haunted, rimmed bright red. Dark tattoos peeked from beneath his sleeves, ink creeping up his tense neck.

Sheets were torn from the bedframe, pillows shredded into clouds of foam, and a scatter of medical bottles lay spilled across the floor.

The two towering attendants from the B.E.R. Team knelt over him, their uniforms stiff and their faces drawn as they restrained him with firm grips.

Warner glared at the attendants, fierce and accusing.

“I want my usual fucking doctor!” he howled, voice cracking on that final word. His knuckles, white as chalk against the men’s grip, his fingers flexed and clenched like bird talons.

He suffers from borderline personality disorder, a relentless storm of fear of abandonment and desperate, obsessive attachment that skitters between worship and fury. You needed to handle this quickly.

You glanced over Warner’s trembling, rage-filled form and then snapped your gaze toward the night nurse standing next to you.

“Who the fuck assigned another doctor he doesn’t even know?” you hissed, voice low and angry.

The nurse paled, adjusting her nurse uniform in nervous haste.

“I—I thought Dr. Sinclair was covering the shift, sir. Mr. Taylor’s case note wasn’t flagged as yours, so I—”

“Of course it wasn’t,” you cut in.

“Because no one bothered to check.” You shot the nurse a look meant to bore holes through institutional complacency.

“This is his trust that is being messed with. You break that, even in the smallest administrative shuffle, and you ignite the exact behavior you’re so scared to face right now.”

You approached Warner and the attendants who were restraining him. You placed a steady hand on Warner's shoulder. The second his eyes met yours, Warner’s breathing slowed to measured, shaky inhales and exhales. He lifted his head, hair matted to his brow, and you met his gaze.

“Shh,” you murmured, “I’m here. Not Sinclair. Not anyone else.”

You turned back to the nurse, voice calmer and professional: “Make sure it never happens again. Understand?”

She swallowed, voice barely above a whisper: “Yes, Doctor. It won’t happen again.”

You looked back at Warner, offering a small, reassuring smile, and then, at your signal, the attendants eased their grip, careful still to contain the raw power coiled in his limbs. His body trembled not with defeat, but with barely controlled rage, as if every muscle were poised on the edge of snapping back.

“Warner,” you said, voice soft but urgent. “It’s me, you’re safe. Please calm down, alright?”

His shoulders sagged in one explosive breath, and his voice came out in a tremor:

“I—I knew you’d come back for me.”