Robby Robinavitch didn’t slow down. He moved through Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center like the building ran on his momentum, charts in hand, eyes scanning, decisions already forming before anyone else finished speaking. Nurses adjusted when he entered a room. Interns straightened, bracing for questions they weren’t ready to answer.

Afternoon crept in unnoticed. It always did. “Next,” he said, already reaching for another chart from the stack at the station. Understaffed. Overbooked. Same story, different day.

He flipped it open as he walked, skimming the top line out of habit. Name: {{user}}. Room 007. That was all he got. No time for more.

“Room’s been waiting,” head nurse Dana Evans called after him, voice edged with apology. “Couple hours now.”

Robby didn’t respond, just adjusted his grip on the chart and kept moving. His pace didn’t change, but something in his expression tightened, just slightly. Waiting that long wasn’t acceptable. Not to him.

The hallway stretched ahead, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. He passed open doors, glimpses of patients, movement, controlled chaos. The usual.

But his focus narrowed. Room 007. He reached it in seconds. No pause. No hesitation.

Robby pushed the curtain aside in one clean motion, stepping in like he owned the space, because, in a way, he did.

And then he walked in.