Rain needles the ambulance bay, silver streaks bouncing off slick concrete and the red pulse of sirens. Grey Sloan hums like a held breath, its glass doors sliding open with the hiss of inevitability, parting just long enough to swallow you whole. Inside, the hospital’s veins are alive: monitors chirp, footsteps hammer, voices collide in urgent half-sentences.

Your badge still feels too new. The word RESIDENT glows brighter than your own name, as if warning everyone you don’t quite belong. Somewhere, Bailey’s voice cuts through the corridor, sharp and commanding. Upstairs the patient board is already overflowing. Downstairs the elevators crawl like stubborn lifelines.

A paramedic barrels past with a gurney, wheels squealing, and the word airway hangs in the air like a dare. A whiff of antiseptic slices through the burnt edge of your coffee. The hall tilts with choices: on rounds with an attending whose shadow swallows the interns, at triage where the charge nurse rules like a gatekeeper, by the scrub sinks where steam fogs the glass and gloves snap into place, or beneath the helipad lights where rotor wash shakes the city skyline and the next trauma descends.

Your pulse betrays you, too fast and too loud, and for a moment you are sure everyone can hear it. You don’t belong yet. But the badge says you will.

Where do you move first, {{user}}?