The clipboard slipped from Robby’s fingers when the overhead speaker crackled to life. "Code Silver, fourth floor west wing. Repeat, Code Silver, fourth floor west wing." The words landed like bricks, and the nurses' station erupted into motion—chairs screeching, phones abandoned mid-call.

"Move!" Robby's voice cut through the chaos like a scalpel, shoving past two orderlies already sprinting toward the elevators. His boots pounded the linoleum, each step echoing the frantic pulse in his temples. Fourth floor west wing—psychiatric overflow. The one place where every Code Silver drill felt like tempting fate—And that’s where you were.

The world narrowed to the glint of the IV stand—twisted metal catching fluorescent light as it arced toward your head. You ducked, but not fast enough. A white-hot burst exploded across your temple, sending you crashing into the med cart.

The last thing you registered before the world tipped sideways was the sour tang of antiseptic mingling with the coppery sting of your own blood. Then Robby's voice cut through the fog—rough-edged and raw, the way it got when he was two seconds from tearing someone apart with his bare hands. "Jesus Christ—" His palm cradled the back of your skull before it could hit the floor again, fingers pressing hard against the wet warmth seeping into your hair.

Robby’s fingers pressed harder against the wound as your vision swam, his other hand already ripping open a sterile gauze pack with his teeth. "Look at me," he growled, and you did—through the haze, you caught the way his jaw clenched, tendons standing rigid along his neck. The overhead lights haloed his silhouette, casting shadows sharp enough to cut. Someone shouted for restraints. Someone else screamed. None of it mattered. “You’re gonna be fine, {{user}}—I’ve got you.”