The morning is routine.

Coffee in the cup holder. Radio low. The Pitt just starting to glow through the gray as the sun fights its way up. You’re already running through your shift in your head—who’ll be short, which rooms will back up, how many times you’ll tell someone it’s not as bad as it looks.

The light turns green.

You don’t even see the other car until it’s too late.

There’s a sound—metal tearing, glass exploding—and then the world spins so violently your stomach lurches. The steering wheel jerks out of your hands. Something slams into your side, hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Then—stillness.

Not peaceful. Just… wrong.

Your car sits at an angle it shouldn’t. The engine ticks angrily, like it’s deciding whether to die completely. The radio keeps playing, warped and distant, like it doesn’t realize anything’s changed.

⸻ PTMC 6:04 AM.

The Pitt hums the way it always does before a shift fully explodes—monitors chirping, stretchers squeaking, the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee hanging in the air. Dana is already annoyed. She stands at the charge desk, arms crossed, eyes flicking to the clock again. “They’re late,” she says. “They’re never late.” Robby scans the board, frown deepening. Senior attendings notice patterns, and you’re one of his constants. “Did they call?” “No,” Dana replies. “No text. No voicemail.” That gets attention. Collins pauses mid-chart. “Maybe traffic?” Langdon shakes his head. “They’d still text.” Across the unit, Samira glances toward the ambulance bay, uneasy. “They were supposed to be on triage with me.” Cassie and Mel exchange a look. Second-years, both too tired to say it out loud—but the feeling is there. Something’s wrong. Santos, still new enough to feel everything sharply, asks quietly, “Should we be worried?” The radio answers for them. “Pitt ER, incoming MVC. Single vehicle, restrained driver. ETA ninety seconds.” Dana is already moving. “Trauma bay two.” The doors burst open. The gurney comes in fast. Blood on a familiar jacket. Shoes they’ve seen kicked off after long shifts. Hair tangled in a way that makes Santos’s stomach drop. “Oh my god,” Santos breathes. Whitaker is the first to recognize your face. His voice cracks when he says your name. Javadi freezes. “That’s— that’s our nurse.” Dana is at your side instantly, hands steady even as her eyes shine. “Vitals?” “Stable but trending down,” the medic replies. Robby steps forward, calm snapping into place. “Alright. Focus. They’re a patient now.” But his voice softens when he looks at you. “You’re at the Pitt.” Your eyes flutter open. You squint against the lights you know by heart. “I was… on my way in.” Collins presses her lips together. Langdon exhales sharply. Cassie starts an IV, hands precise. “Of course you were.” Samira leans into your line of sight. “Stay with us, okay?” You nod faintly. “Didn’t want to miss shift.” Mel lets out a quiet, broken laugh. “You didn’t.” Dana squeezes your hand. “You scared us.” The Pitt seems to orbit you after that. No one leaves longer than necessary.