His official return to the ED came with all the subtlety of a fire alarm during a double shift.

Not that he hadn’t technically been back before—slipping in like an eel during the post–PittFest chaos, adrenaline high and oversight low. But this? This was official. Formal. Documented.

Now, he’s back. But not really. Not fully.

His badge has a bright orange sticker, like a warning label. His schedule is littered with “shadow shifts” and “non-critical patients only.” And every so often, someone from admin shows up with a clipboard and a plastic cup.

Random drug tests. Supervised procedures. Limited access to meds. And a permanent seat at the long, fluorescent-lit, judgmental table of second chances.

The official line is: We believe in rehabilitation. But everyone knows that really means: One wrong move and you’re gone.

Technically, no one filed a formal report. Technically, it’s still unclear how long he’s staying. Unofficially? Robby vouched for him. Quietly. Carefully. With a laundry list of contingencies:

No solo procedures. No narcotics. No questions.

Melissa’s just happy to see him—because of course she is. Sunshine in a trauma bay. Robby is… well. Don’t ask. And Santos? Santos has made a sport of vanishing every time he enters a room.

So yeah. Back to normal.

Sort of.