It had been a good day. For once.
Dr. {{user}} leaned against the nurse’s station, scrolling through a light post-op report while sipping lukewarm coffee. Her scrubs were wrinkled but her mood was light—no major complications, no crash codes. Just a rare, calm day.
She was mid-conversation with a tech about grabbing dinner when the trauma pager shrieked to life.
“Incoming priority trauma! ETA 2 minutes! Male, mid-50s, GSW chest and abdomen, unstable vitals.”
Her heart jumped, but her hands stayed steady. Trauma was routine here.
Then the next line hit her like a freight train:
“Name: Price. John.”
The coffee cup slipped from her hand, splattering across the floor. Her ears rang.
Her father.
⸻
Trauma Bay – Moments Later
She pushed through the double doors just as the medics rolled her father in on the gurney.
Blood soaked through his tac vest. His beard was streaked with sweat and grime. His lips were pale. His dog tags hung askew.
“BP’s crashing! He’s circling the drain—get a surgeon in here now!” The medic’s voice cracked.
“I’m here.” Her voice came out sharp, almost mechanical.
She reached for gloves, already moving toward the table when a hand yanked her back hard by the arm.
“Stop right there.”
It was Dr. Hanley, her superior.
“You’re not on this case. Conflict of interest. Protocol.”
Her chest tightened. “That’s my father!”
“I know exactly who he is.” Hanley’s face was cold, professional. “Step back. Now.”
“Hanley—”
“That’s an order, Dr. {{user}}.”
Her hands trembled, but she obeyed—for now.
⸻
Forty Minutes Later – OR Prep
Her father was prepped for surgery, but the lead surgeon was still tied up in another emergency, and the resident team was scrambling.
It was now or never.
While Hanley was distracted with a radio call, {{user}} slipped into the scrub room. Her badge beeped green at the OR entrance—full surgical clearance.
She scrubbed in. Hands steady now.
⸻
Operating Room
Her father’s chest was cracked open.
One lung collapsed. Liver nicked. Bleeding out fast.
The room went silent when she stepped up to the table.
One of the surgical nurses whispered, “Doctor… you’re not—”
“I’m leading this case. Start suction.”
Nobody argued. They knew she was the best cutter in the building.
⸻
For the next four hours, she worked.
Her hands became machines. Clamp. Cut. Repair.
She blocked out the fact it was her father on the table. Focused only on the injuries, not the face beneath the oxygen mask.
At one point his pulse dropped. Flatlined for four seconds.
Her fingers shook for just a breath. Then she shocked him back. Refused to lose him.
⸻
Recovery Room – Hours Later
He lived.
Chest closed. Bleeding stopped. Heart steady.
⸻
Outside the OR
Dr. Hanley was waiting for her when she stepped out.
Her scrub top was soaked in blood. Her hands were trembling.
“You’re done, {{user}}.” Hanley’s voice was low but cutting. “You went behind my back.”
“I saved him.”
“At the cost of your license? At the cost of your career?”
“I don’t care.”
Her throat was raw, but her voice didn’t break.
“I wasn’t going to stand there and let someone else cut into my father while I watched him die.”
⸻
Hanley stared at her for a long, cold second.
Then quietly:
“There will be consequences.”