The fluorescent lights at Mount Sinai Hospital buzzed like an overworked intern high on bad coffee and regret. Outside, New York was alive, but inside, time moved slowly.
Two weeks have passed since the fire. Since he lost Tommy. Since that strange encounter with the man who called himself Leo—or whatever his true name was. In those two weeks, Elias had become more of a ghost than a man, drifting around the hospital corridors like a lost spirit dressed in scrubs.
His once-chiseled jawline had succumbed to exhaustion, with a touch of stubble coming in as if it had given up on him. The black circles under his eyes had deepened. If someone mistook him for one of his own patients, he would not blame them.
Elias went about his days like a well-oiled machine—efficient, precise, and just distant enough to feel like someone had replaced his heart for a to-do list. His hands continued to work their magic in the OR, but the spark that had once filled his blue eyes had faded to a dull glow.
At six feet tall, he used to walk with the ease of someone who knew he could save lives. Now, his shoulders sank just enough to suggest that gravity somehow had gotten heavier.
Elias had perfected the art of avoiding personal talks. A stiff nod here, a faint grunt there—enough to give the impression he was listening while keeping others at arm''s length.
Concerned coworkers attempted to check on him, only to be met with carefully timed coffee sips or sudden, intense interest in a blank wall.
Lunch was no different. He sat alone, stabbing at his food as if it had personally angered him. His slender, strong build promised discipline and control, but his hollow-eyed stare at the cafeteria window revealed a different story—one of exhaustion, of someone trying to outthink his own regrets.
“Dr. Carter, are you okay? You seem… off.”
A young resident, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and foolish enough to question a senior doctor before his second coffee, looked at Elias with genuine concern.
Elias forced a smile. At the very least, there was once a smile. It was more of an unpleasant grimace now, the kind you do when someone waves at you, but they were actually waving at the person behind you. "Just tired," he mumbled. "Long night."
That was not a lie. However, that was not the complete truth either. Tired didn''t quite cut it—bone-deep tiredness, emotional drain, and an existential crisis thrown in for good measure seemed more appropriate.
The resident hesitated, most likely pondering whether to push further, before wisely deciding against it. "Alright then," he muttered with a tight nod before running away.
Later that day, an itch under his skin made it impossible for Elias to sit still. He told himself he was only checking in and assisting where needed—but he wasn''t fooling anyone. It was not duty that drew him to the ER. It was the desire to act, to silence the nagging voices in his head that kept talking about what-ifs and near-misses.
When he stepped inside, chaos struck him like a wild IV pole. The ER has always been a circus, but what about tonight? It appeared that the tent had been set on fire.
Doctors maneuvered between gurneys like overworked acrobats, nurses barking orders like seasoned ringmasters, and the patients—well, they were the real show.
A man with a broken nose was shouting at another man with a similar injury, and both were being held back by irritated orderlies.
Another was gripping their arm as if it was about to come off, and another patient in the corner exclaimed, "I swear, I''m dying!" despite sitting upright and scrolling through their phone.
It wasn''t just the normal flu outbreaks and culinary mishaps. The night had an edge to it—a sharpness in the air, a pattern in the injuries that made Elias'' stomach knot. Fights, assaults, and a bar brawl reminiscent of an action film. Even domestic disputes were bloodier than normal.
Elias sidestepped a hobbling patient and turned to a stressed nurse who appeared to be two shifts past her limit. "Is there a full moon tonight, or did we accidentally open a portal to the Underworld?"
She grunted and adjusted her spectacles. "Honestly? I''d rather deal with demons than this. At least they have rules."
Since when did his world become so chaotic?
As if reading his mind, the nurse sighed and rubbed her exhausted face with her hand. "Doctor, it''s been like this for a week. And it''s growing worse. People are snapping over trivial matters—like we''re all one wrong look away from a riot."
Before Elias could respond, a gurney passed by, carrying a young guy with a split lip, a swollen eye, and the definite appearance of having recently lost a battle. Blood crusted around his nose, and despite his obvious suffering, his look could melt steel.
Elias raised an eyebrow. “Another fight?”
The nurse snorted. "Yep. "Some guy just lost it, started screaming at him in the street, and bam!—went full gladiator on him."
Elias was at a loss. "Did he say what started it?"
The nurse shrugged. "I think he sneezed too loud."
Elias pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great. So now we''re fighting over air."
She gently patted his arm. "Welcome to the apocalypse, Doctor."
"Do... not... jinx... it." He exclaimed.
Elias weaved across the emergency room, patching up wounds and trying not to trip over agitated nurses or rolling gurneys. His hands moved on autopilot, stitching, bandaging, and keeping people alive—even if he felt like he couldn''t keep himself together.
At one of the bays, a young woman grimaced as he tightened the final thread on a deep gash on her forearm.
"You''re lucky," he stated, severing the last thread with a clean snip. "Another inch deeper, and you''d have gotten a free anatomy lesson."
Sarah, a college student with sleepy eyes and a uniform that said part-time work, took a nervous breath. "Yeah, well, I almost got one anyway. When I refused to give up my bag to a jerk, he gave me this instead."
Her hands trembled as she flexed her fingers and tested the stitches. "Things are getting weird out there, Doc. I don''t even feel safe walking home now."
Elias sighed and carefully placed a bandage over the wound. "Welcome to the jungle," he replied dryly. "Where the predators don''t even wait for nightfall."
Sarah managed a weak laugh. "Great. So, should I start carrying a sword?
"Only if you know how to use one," he joked, then softened. "Be careful, alright? Pay attention to your surroundings. Perhaps invest in a stupidly loud whistle."
He took a step back, taking off his gloves as she flexed her fingers again. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
"Will I at least get a cool scar?" she asked.
Elias smirked. "That depends—do you want the ''I fought off a mugger'' or ''I tripped on a sidewalk and landed on glass'' scar?"
"Definitely the first one," she grinned.
"Good choice."
He then moved on, because at this ER, the next disaster was always just a heartbeat away.
A middle-aged man sat, scowling like he''d just discovered his lottery ticket was one number off. Dried blood stained his arm, and his shirt had a nice bullet hole at the shoulder—fortunately, no matching hole in him.
"Lucky guy," Elias commented while assessing the wound. "Bullet just grazed you."
“Yeah, tell that to my shoulder,” Mr. Henderson grumbled, flinching as Elias dabbed at the torn skin with antiseptic. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”
"Well," Elias remarked, raising his brow, "judging from the exit wound on your shirt, I''d say the bullet disagreed and attempted to take you with it.
Mr. Henderson gave a bitter, humorless grunt, "And I thought getting shot was the worst part of my day..."
Elias smirked. "Consider it part of the treatment."
Later, in the break room, Elias sank into a chair and held a cup of coffee that had changed from nearly unfit for human consumption to likely a biohazard in the time it took him to sit down.
Across from him, Nurse Jenny—veteran, unshakeable, and driven solely by caffeine and pure willpower—poured herself a fresh cup with the slow, deliberate movements of someone on fumes.
"You noticed it too, huh, Dr. Carter?" She spoke with a tone that was something between fatigue and humor.
"Hard to miss," Elias mumbled, rubbing his temples before taking a drink of his pathetic coffee. Lukewarm. Bitter. Exactly like his soul at this time. "It''s not simply the number of cases; it''s the intensity. Everyone is either outraged or on the verge of a meltdown."
Jenny snorted into her cup. "It''s as if the entire city woke up on the wrong side of the bed and chose to throw hands. I witnessed a man earlier try to strike an orderly for looking at him too kindly." She shakes her head. "Twenty years in the ER, and this is a first."
Elias exhaled and let his head lightly thump against the back of his chair. "Great. So we''re either in the thick of some type of full-moon nonsense or the world''s worst anger management seminar."
Jenny raised her cup in mock salute. "Either way, I hope whatever''s causing it takes a damn day off."
Elias clinked his cup against hers. Fat chance.
Their momentary relaxation ended as Dr. Ramirez stormed in, looking as if he had just swallowed a lemon.
“We got a call,” he announced, his voice tight. “Multiple stab wounds from a bar fight downtown. They’re on their way.”
The words hit like a defibrillator shock. The break room, formerly a haven of lukewarm coffee and tired sighs, came to life. Jenny sighed, immediately downing the last of her glass as if it were liquid courage.
"Why is it always a bar fight?" she grumbled.
Elias smirked as they hustled out. “Alcohol, bad decisions, and an overinflated sense of masculinity. Classic recipe for disaster.”
They flooded into the corridor, white coats flaring behind them like capes as the distant sound of sirens got closer. The sound ripped at Elias'' nerves, a foreshadowing of impending calamity.
He ignored his own exhaustion—no time for that now. Lives were going to be placed on their doorstep, and he had work to do.
"Here we go again," he said quietly, rolling his shoulders. "Another night in paradise."
Jenny snorted. “You say that like you don’t love it.”
Elias only grinned. Maybe he did.
The ER''s double doors burst open like a dramatic entrance in a medical soap opera, and commotion erupted just as expected. The first gurney rolled by, carrying a young man whose blood-soaked shirt clung to him like a bad decision. His face twisted in despair, his eyes darting wildly—part from torment, part from whatever dumb choices had led him here.
Two more followed, each providing a fresh exhibit in the anatomy lesson of Why You Shouldn''t Start a Bar Fight.
Dr. Ramirez hardly looked at the first patient before yelling, "Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen! He''s in hemorrhagic shock—OR One right now!!" His voice had the crisp authority of a man who has witnessed far too many bar brawls end in stabbings.
Elias moved to the second patient, a woman in her early thirties whose breath came in short, ragged gasps. He recognized the problem when he looked at her leg: blood was gushing from a deep laceration in her thigh, in sync with her frightened heartbeat. Great. An arterial bleed.
"Alright, let''s get some pressure on this before we repaint the floors," Elias replied, placing gauze firmly against the wound. The woman winced, grasping the gurney''s edge.
"Do you think the other guy looks worse?" he questioned, looking to the stab victim who was being rushed away. "You should see him."
She exhaled weakly, half laughing and half in pain. Good. If she had the strength to roll her eyes at him, she still had some fighting spirit.
"Get her typed and crossed for a transfusion," Elias instructed, his voice firm even as his scrubs stained by yet another set of bloodstains.
Nurse Jenny was immediately on the case, cinching a tourniquet around the woman''s thigh with the efficiency of someone who had done this too many times to count. "Got it, Doctor," she responded, yanking the strap with practiced force.
"Good. Let''s move to trauma bay two!!" Elias instructed, pressing harder on the wound to stem the bleeding. "And please contact vascular surgery! Unless we want to play a fun game of ''Guess Which Artery Needs Fixing.''"
As they wheeled the woman away, Elias focused his attention on the final patient, a young man just out of his teens sitting on a stretcher with wide, watery eyes. His shoulder bore a stab wound, but compared to the others, he appeared more scared than stabbed.
Dr. Lee, a young resident with the energy of someone who still believed in work-life balance, stepped forward. "I''ve got this one," he responded, pulling up his sleeves as if challenging the wound to a duel.
"Good," Elias replied, nodding. "Clean, irrigate, and take an X-ray. "Make sure the knife did not nick any bones." He began to turn away, but then looked back. "And if he starts hyperventilating, just remind him that at least he''s not the guy in OR One."
The young man blinked. "Wait—what happened to the guy in OR One?"
Elias sighed. "You don''t wanna know, kid."
Dr. Lee placed a soothing hand on the patient''s good shoulder. "Let''s just say, you received the deluxe stabbing package. Not the premium one."
The kid groaned. “I knew I should’ve just stayed home.”
Elias turned his attention back to the woman who had an arterial bleed. Her medical bracelet read Maria, and she was in no state to introduce herself.
Her eyelids flickered, unfocused, and her breaths came in short, irregular pants. Her skin had taken on an unpleasant grayish pallor that he was all too familiar with—like a phone operating on 1% power with no charger around.
Oh no... not on his watch.
"Maria," he said, his voice firm despite the pandemonium all around them. “Hey, I need you to stay with me, okay? No passing out, no fading into the light, none of that.”
No response. Her pulse beneath his fingers was feeble, skipping beats like an unreliable Wi-Fi connection.
Elias pressed harder against the injury, his hands wet with blood. Come on. He could feel her slipping, fear pressing against her ribs like a closing fist. He inhaled through his nose to steady himself. It''s time to be the anchor.
He leaned in slightly and spoke in a quiet, soothing tone. “Listen, Maria, I know this sucks—I get it. But you’re a fighter. I can tell. You survived whatever bar fight-from-hell this was, so you’re not going out like this.”
His lips quirked. "You don''t seem like the type to let some idiot with a broken bottle take you down."
Her fingers twitched slightly, a barely noticeable but adequate response.
"See? "That''s the spirit," he muttered, pressing the gauze firmly on her wound. "You keep fighting, and I''ll handle the rest. Deal?"
A shallow, rasping breath. Another flash of movement.
"That''s it, Maria," he said softly, his voice as firm as his hands. "You''re doing well. Just continue breathing. No sudden moves, no theatrical monologues—we''ll reserve those for later."
Her fingers twitched in his grip. A slight pinch. He interpreted it as a positive indication.
He continued to speak in a light, casual tone, as if they were discussing weekend plans rather than her immediate survival. He explained what he was doing in words she could understand, rather than the dry, technical jargon that made medical students sweat.
"Alright, I''m applying pressure here—not great for comfort, but great for preventing bleeding. And in a moment, we''ll take you to surgery, where the true magic occurs. You''ll be fine, okay?"
He gave her hand another strong grip, like an anchor in the midst of her anguish and dread.
By the time the surgical team came, Maria was stable enough to be taken away. Her eyelids flickered open as they started to move her. For the first time, her eyes found him—truly found him.
"Doctor…" she rasped.
Elias leaned closer, expecting deep gratitude, perhaps a tearful thank you.
Instead, she squinted. "You''ve got blood… like, everywhere."
Elias looked down at his scrubs, which had turned crimson rather than blue. He sighed. "Yeah, it''s a look. Not a good one, but still a look."
She sent out a breathy, faint chuckle as they wheeled her away. He smirked. She''ll be alright.
The operating room''s bright, clean lights banished the commotion of the ER, leaving only the calm, controlled buzz of professionals at work. There were no wild cries or speeding gurneys here; everything was measured and exact.
Elias, scrubbed and gowned, stood over Maria, his attention drawn to the wound in front of him. Doubts, tiredness, and even the stubborn recollection of a coffee he never liked drifted away. Here, his hands understood exactly what to do.
“Vitals?” he asked without looking up.
"Stable," the anesthesiologist, Dr. Chen, remarked. "BP 110 over 70, heart rate 90, regular. She''s holding steady."
"Well, at least someone''s stable tonight," Elias mumbled.
Dr. Singh, a vascular surgeon with decades of experience and the kind of unwavering calm normally reserved for monks and bomb disposal professionals, stood beside him and examined the wound. "Nasty laceration," he commented, tilting his head. "But clean. Shouldn''t be too difficult to fix."
"Let''s hope so," Elias answered, examining the damage. Blood loss remained a problem, and Maria''s body had already contributed more than its fair share to the ER floor.
"Speaking of headaches, anyone else smell burnt toast, or am I finally having that stroke I keep warning my interns about?" Dr. Singh quipped.
Dr. Chen sighed. “That’s the cautery, Singh.”
Elias smirked under his mask. "Focus, gentlemen. We''re here to save lives, not diagnose your coming medical emergency."
Singh chuckled but nodded. "Okay, Carter. Let''s make it look easy."
Elias and Dr. Singh moved in perfect sync, a two-person orchestra of scalpels and sutures. No wasted movements or words. All it takes is a continuous, precise dance of trained hands to keep a human body fighting.
"Clamping the artery," Elias said calmly, despite the blood pooling beneath his gloves.
"Bleeding controlled," Dr. Singh stated, immediately preparing the suture.
Elias barely nodded, his concentration fixed. The torn artery lay in front of him, a delicate thread between life and death, and it was their responsibility to repair it. There is no pressure. Just another night of keep-the-patient-alive.
Maria lingered on the brink of consciousness beneath the anesthesia, like a flickering candle amid a storm. Elias could sense it: the delicate thread of her presence. He wasn''t a god or a miracle worker, despite what some nurses joked about, but he was capable of doing this. He could pull her back.
He clinched his jaw and focused harder, willing her to hold on.
Not this time. Not again.
He refused to let Maria suffer the same fate as Tommy.
"Hey," Dr. Singh''s voice broke the tension. "You planning to stare the artery back together, or are you actually going to suture it?"
Elias blinked and exhaled, shrugging off the memories that clung at the corners of his memory.
"Right, sorry. Just manifesting good vibes," he said as he began the sutures.
"Uh-huh," Singh deadpanned. "How about manifesting some stitches instead?"
Elias smirked, and the strain in his chest relaxed somewhat. "On it."
The monitors stabilized as the final stitch was tied and blood flow restarted. Maria''s delicate flicker flared a bit brighter. Elias exhaled.
"Artery’s repaired," he declared, snapping his gloves off. "Good flow. No leaks. We can close her up."
Elias'' hands were moving with the precision of a concert pianist, but he was suturing a human being rather than a piano. Unwavering in his focus, he closed the incision layer by layer.
“She’s going to make it,” he murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Talking to unconscious patients again, Carter?” Dr. Singh grinned.
Elias shrugged, securing the final stitch. “Hey, they listen better than most people.”
He stepped back, removing his gloves and stretching his stiff shoulders. It was finished. She was stable. For the first time in a long while, something settled inside him.
Yeah. She was going to be okay. And maybe, just maybe… so was he.