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The fluorescent lights hum above me with a low, pulsing insistence that’s long since faded into background noise. I move through the corridor with steady, practiced strides, a tablet balanced in one hand and my ID badge swinging slightly against my coat pocket. My scrubs cling damply to my lower back—a byproduct of too many hours on my feet, too many rooms, too many bodies.

Triage is full again.

I don’t need to glance at the monitors above the double doors to know that the board is stacked with yellow tags. Not critical enough for the trauma team, but bad enough to demand time we don’t have. The ER is bloated, overfed with broken limbs and gasping chests, its appetite for suffering endless and gluttonous. I stopped counting how many shifts I’ve done like this a long time ago. They all bleed together. Adrenaline, muscle memory, caffeine.

I turn into Exam Room 3 with a glance at the name on the chart. Dislocated shoulder. The boy on the bed is maybe sixteen, tall and skinny, panic swimming in his eyes and a hoodie stained with blood. He tries to sit up when he sees me.

“Easy,” I say, keeping my voice low and even—more effective than reassurance. “What’s your name?”

“Zach.”

“You fall or get hit?”

“I—I wiped out on my board. Just landed wrong.”

I nod. “We’ll get you some pain meds and pop it back in.”

His face drains to a new shade of pale.

“Look at me,” I say, kneeling beside the bed so I can meet his eyes directly. “It’s going to hurt for a second. Then it’ll stop. You trust me?”

He doesn’t answer with words, just gives a quick nod, jaw clenched tight.

I don’t flinch. My fingers move with precise care as I test the joint, confirming the angle and the dislocation. I give the nurse beside me a quiet nod. “On three,” I say, but relocate it on two.

Zach yelps, then gasps—and then goes limp, the tension falling from his body as the joint slides back into place.

“That’s it,” I say, letting my voice soften. “All done.”

His breath comes in shaky pulls, but he manages a crooked smile. “That was fast.”

“Practice,” I murmur, already peeling off my gloves.

I step into the hall before the door has even fully closed behind me, the hum of my pager cutting through the air with fresh urgency. I silence it with one tap and pivot toward Bay 2. My feet ache. My calves ache. But my mind is sharp. No fog. Not yet.

Janine intercepts me near the crash cart. “Guy in Bay 2’s vomiting blood. History of ulcers, maybe liver, he’s circling the drain.”

“What’s the BP?”

“Eighty over forty and dropping.”

I’m already moving before she finishes. The curtain in Bay 2 is barely drawn; I push through it with my shoulder and take in the scene at a glance. A man in his fifties, thin to the point of transparency, writhes on the bed, dark fluid soaking his gown and the sheet beneath him. Two nurses are struggling to keep him stable.

I snap into action. “Get GI on the line now. We need a scope. Two units of O-negative, wide open. Someone call respiratory—he’s about to crash.”

“Already on it,” Janine replies, tapping her headset.

I grab suction and a laryngoscope, gloves slick before I’ve even touched him. Blood is everywhere—on his teeth, pooling at the corners of his mouth, leaking from his nose. The copper tang coats the inside of my throat, but I don’t flinch.

“He’s coding,” someone says.

“Bag him,” I order. “We’re intubating.”

For the next eight minutes, there’s no room for thought—only movement, instruction, action. I find the vocal cords on the second attempt, slide the tube in, confirm placement. Chest rise. CO? indicator. Good.

By the time GI arrives, the bleeding has slowed. The transfusion is taking. His pulse has stabilized, barely holding. I step back, peel off my gloves, and toss them into the bin with a snap that feels louder than it should.

“Nice catch,” one of the techs mutters as he passes.

I don’t respond.

There’s no time.

Outside the bay, the hallway smells of antiseptic and wet fabric, the air conditioner kicking on in short, unpredictable bursts. I lean briefly against the wall beside the linen cart and close my eyes for three seconds. No more. Just enough to let the adrenaline settle, to let the tremble in my hands fade.

Three seconds, then I’m walking again.

Back at the nurses’ station, someone’s left a cup of coffee beside my clipboard. Cold, but untouched. I sip it anyway, grateful for the bitter sting—it keeps me upright more than the caffeine does.

Marcus passes me, wheeling an empty gurney. One of the younger nurses, always moving like he’s trying to outrun the night.

“You good?” he asks, already halfway past.

“Fine.”

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

He grins and disappears around the corner. I smile faintly to myself, rubbing the back of my neck. Every muscle in my body aches, even ones I didn’t know existed. My shoes are damp from blood or water—I don’t check. My stomach growls in complaint. My head pounds from the hours I’ve spent under relentless fluorescent lighting.

But I’m still standing.

That counts for something.

A new chart slides into the inbox. I grab it without looking. Room 7. Head trauma. Domestic violence. The kind of case that always hits differently, even now.

I exhale—just once—and head down the hall.

My night isn’t over yet.

The break room is barely lit when I slip inside. One dim bulb casts a sickly yellow glow over the dented lockers and the scuffed-up table in the middle of the room. A dying Ficus droops in the corner near the microwave, its leaves coated in a thin layer of dust no one’s bothered to clean. I sit hunched at the table, elbows resting on a stack of charts, and wrap both hands around a disposable cup of coffee that’s lukewarm at best.

It tastes burnt—like it’s been sitting in the pot since the last shift change—but I drink it anyway. At this hour, caffeine is more ritual than remedy.

I scan the patient notes in front of me, pen tapping against the rim of the cup. A concussion with delayed reaction time. A chest X-ray flagged for shadowing. A three-year-old with a suspected spiral fracture. My pen hovers for a moment, then moves quickly—short, efficient strokes. Everything neat. Contained. Controlled.

The door creaks open behind me. I don’t look up.

“God, this night is crawling,” Maya groans as she drops into the chair beside me. Her lead apron from radiology still hangs off one shoulder, and she pulls her scrub cap off with a groan, raking her fingers through messy curls. “I swear I’ve aged ten years since midnight.”

I hum in agreement, offering only the smallest glance before going back to the charts.

Maya leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “You know, we’re technically allowed to have lives. I checked. It’s in the contract. Fine print, bottom corner, right under where it says ‘will endure hell for peanuts.’”

A soft huff escapes me, the corner of my mouth twitching toward a smile, though it never quite forms. I flip the page and reach for the next chart.

“Don’t tell me you’re back tomorrow,” she says, squinting at me. “Seriously, Elise, take a breath. Go home. Sleep. Watch something stupid on TV.”

“I’m not on schedule,” I reply, still reading. “I’ve got somewhere important to be.”

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough for the air to shift.

“Family?” she asks gently.

“No.” I pause, then add, “Just something I have to handle.”

Maya raises a brow. “Mysterious.”

“Not really,” I murmur, closing the chart. My tone stays casual, but my body shifts—shoulders drawn tight, legs folding beneath the table. Not defensive. Just shut.

She leans back in her chair, letting it go. “Well, whatever it is, I hope it involves food and not blood.”

I offer a faint smile. “Don’t they usually go together in this line of work?”

“That’s what I’m saying. You deserve one day where you’re not elbow-deep in someone’s spleen.” She stretches her arms above her head with a groan. “I’m supposed to have brunch with my sister tomorrow. Guaranteed passive-aggression and overcooked eggs. Maybe I’ll swap with you.”

“Tempting,” I say dryly, reaching for my coffee again.

A burst of laughter echoes from the hallway. A nurse passes by the window in a blur of motion, clipboard in hand. The rhythm of the hospital never really stops. It just cycles—chaos to exhaustion, back again.

Maya stands with a sigh and tightens her ponytail. “Alright. Back to the trenches. Room 4’s CT is back, and I already know I’m going to fight radiology about it.”

I nod. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” She pauses at the door, glancing back. “You know, if you ever want to talk about your mysterious plans, I’m all ears. No pressure.”

“I know,” I say, already turning back to the files. “Thanks.”

When she leaves, the break room falls quiet again—just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant beep of a monitor somewhere down the corridor. I sit still for a moment longer, pen resting idle between my fingers. My gaze drifts toward the corkboard in the corner, cluttered with outdated flyers and an old “thank you” card taped over CPR instructions.

I take another sip of coffee. It’s gone cold enough to make me wince. I set the cup down.

My hands move without thought, flipping open a new file. My eyes skim the intake notes. Another patient. Another case. A buffer between me and whatever tomorrow holds.

I don’t lie often. It’s not in my nature. But when Maya asked, something inside me twisted tight. A reflex I couldn’t quite explain. The truth felt too sharp in my throat.

Somewhere important to be.

That much is true—even if the thought of tomorrow leaves something strange and weightless in my chest.

My shift’s not over. Patients are still waiting. Wounds still need closing. Vitals still need checking.

I rise from the chair and gather the files—one under my arm, the rest pressed to my chest. My steps are steady as I walk out, but my mind is elsewhere.

Not on the charts. Not on the next room.

On the space between now and tomorrow.

On whatever might be waiting there.

The halls are quieter now that my shift’s ending, but they never really sleep. The monitors still beep in their familiar rhythm. The wheels of carts still squeak against linoleum.

I walk them like a ghost, clipboard tucked tight, feet slower now. The rounds are done. The charts signed off. The bleeding—at least for now—staunched.

My bones ache with the kind of fatigue that lives beneath the skin—heavy and deep, too settled to shake off with coffee or adrenaline. I walk through the near-empty corridor on autopilot, a slow drag of footsteps over worn linoleum.

Above me, the fluorescent lights flicker once, casting the waiting area in a brief, stuttering glare. The chairs are lined up in their neat, sterile rows, untouched since the last round of visitors trickled out. The vending machine hums softly near the doors, its dull glow turning the windows into mirrors. I catch my reflection and barely recognize what looks back—dark circles etched under my eyes, curls half-fallen from the tie at the nape of my neck, the stark white of my coat making my skin appear paler than it is.

I push through the double doors and step into the night.

The cold slaps me clean across the face.

For a moment, I just stand there and breathe. Steam curls from my mouth in slow spirals, each exhale sharp in the frigid air. The street is quiet. Fog clings to the edges of the pavement, glowing faintly under the amber streetlights like something left behind. Somewhere far off, a siren wails—not urgent, not close. Just another sound drifting through a city that never really rests.

I cross the street to the staff lot, keys already in hand. My car’s where it always is—dusty blue, a few dents along the back left door from an icy winter I haven’t bothered to forget. I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut behind me. My forehead rests against the steering wheel for a moment. Then another.

Silence.

Eventually, my fingers move. I turn the key. The engine shudders to life with a low, rough growl, the heater coughing up lukewarm air that spills weakly from the vents. I back out slow and smooth, headlights slicing through the mist ahead.

The drive home is short. Eight minutes if the lights are with me. Ten if they’re not. Tonight, they are. Every intersection is empty. Every signal green. I pass shuttered storefronts and shadowed apartment blocks, their windows dark, their outlines familiar only because I’ve memorized the cracks in the paint and the way certain bulbs never get replaced.

My building sits at the edge of a quieter block—narrow, old brick, the kind of place that never fully got around to modernizing. The radiators groan like dying animals. The plumbing screams when someone dares to shower after midnight. It isn’t much, but it’s mine.

I park in my usual spot. Climb the stairs, each one creaking under my weight, the echo of my shoes bouncing off the stairwell’s concrete walls. The day clings to my shoulders like a wet coat I can’t shrug off.

Apartment 4B.

The lock sticks, as always. Then gives with a click.

Inside, everything is still.

The air holds a faint chill, not quite cold but untouched by any warmth. I flick on the entryway lamp and step out of my shoes. My coat slides from my shoulders with a heavy thump as I hang it up on the crooked hook by the door.

My apartment is small. Functional. Clean in the way that reads more clinical than cozy. The living room doubles as a workspace, one corner taken up by a small desk, the other by a modest gray couch. A worn medical textbook lies open on the coffee table, the corners curled slightly. Beside it sits a cup of tea from two mornings ago, untouched, its surface still faintly stained with leaves. I scoop it up on my way to the kitchen and pour it down the sink without looking.

No clutter. No photos. No magnets on the fridge. No postcards from places I haven’t visited. The walls are bare except for a single clock above the stove, its ticking too loud in the silence.

I don’t mind. I prefer it this way.

I change into an oversized T-shirt and leggings, tossing my scrubs into the hamper and already calculating when I’ll do the next load. Probably not tomorrow. My toes curl against the cold tile as I pad to the bathroom to wash my face. The mirror is still streaked with old condensation—something I hadn’t noticed this morning. Or hadn’t cared.

In the soft light, I study myself just long enough to register the tiredness under my eyes. The faint crease between my brows. The way my jaw stays clenched, even at rest. I look like someone older than twenty-four. Someone who’s seen enough blood to know there’s always more to come.

I dry my face with a towel and don’t bother turning on the overhead light in the bedroom. The sheets are cool when I slide between them, limbs heavy, head thick with sleep. But something inside me won’t quiet. My eyes stay open, the ceiling above me washed in soft blue light from the streetlamp outside.

I reach for my phone.

Set the alarm—early. Too early, really. Earlier than I should, earlier than anyone would after a shift like the one I’ve just survived. I’m used to early. I don’t know how to sleep in.

I don’t dream. Not that night.

In the morning, I won’t remember the stillness. Won’t remember what it felt like to lie in bed without danger close, without blood on my hands, without something looming at the edge of the day.

Maybe.