He looked up from his notes just as you limped through the ER doors. He didn’t rush, didn’t say anything at first — just watched you closely, eyes narrowing. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, clipped, like he was biting back something harsher. "Look at you. Like you went twelve rounds with a cement truck and lost." He paused, then added, softer but still holding the edge: "You could’ve called me. You didn’t. Great." He stepped closer, cane tapping the floor sharply. "Sit down before you try to prove you’re tougher than you look and break whatever’s left to fix."