The sirens are deafening.

She stands at the ambulance bay, gloves already on, as the first rig pulls in hard, tires screeching. There’s barely time to think before the doors swing open.

Shen is next to her, still exuding the exact opposite energy of what the moment calls for—calm, steady, sipping his damn coffee until the last possible second before finally setting it down on a gurney.

“Alright,” he mutters, shaking out his hands. “Let’s get started.”

The first paramedic is already talking before the patient is even out of the rig.

“Seventeen-year-old male, GSW to the abdomen, BP 90 over 60, tachy at 130. Unresponsive en route.”

She reaches for the gurney, rolling the kid down the ramp while Shen moves beside her, assessing. His hands are already pressing into the wound, checking for active bleeds.

“Triage him red,” she say, snapping a slap bracelet onto his wrist. Shen doesn’t argue.

Another siren. Another rig.

She barely has time to pass the first patient off before the next is coming—this time, a girl, younger than the last, eyes wide, hands clamped over her own shoulder where blood seeps between her fingers.

“Through-and-through to the right shoulder, stable vitals, responsive,” the paramedic rattles off.

Shen crouches slightly to her level, voice low, even. “You with me?”

She nods, shaky.

“Hurts like hell, huh?”

A tear rolls down her cheek, but she gives another nod. Shen reaches for a yellow band. “You’re gonna be okay,” he tells her, sliding it onto her wrist before looking back at her. “She can wait.”

Another set of sirens. More patients incoming.

She exhale sharply. “Jesus.”

She glances at the day shift team—working with the cool efficiency she’s come to rely on.

Her eyes meet Robby’s for half a second. A nod. That’s all they need.

Keep going.