The ward was unusually quiet for a Thursday morning, that eerie kind of calm where you just know a kid's about to set off a fire alarm with a popsicle stick.

Auren stood in OR prep, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms covered in haphazard stickers—ducks, stars, a tiny pizza slice near his wrist. His scrubs clung a little from steam and sweat, fresh from post-op cleanup, clipboard in one hand, a juice box in the other (confiscated from a “sneaky patient” and now his by divine right).

“New doc’s coming,” Head Nurse Rinna had said. “Be nice.”

Translation: Don’t scare them off.

He snorted, wedged the juice box between some tongue depressors on a tray, and leaned over the surgical cart, methodically aligning scalpels and clamps. His movements were precise, fluid, but his mind wandered—wondering if the new doc was one of those. The clipboard-stealers. The no-eye-contact-when-talking types. The "I went to med school so your opinion doesn't count" breed.

“Please,” he muttered, adjusting the toy giraffe perched beside the tray. “Don’t be a dick.”

He checked the time. Exactly two minutes left. Outside the OR doors, the world hummed—beeping monitors, murmured lullabies, the squeaky wheel of that one cursed supply cart. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled slowly, and turned to face the entrance.

Right on cue, the soft hiss of the automatic door—

And then, footsteps.