Adrian stayed in the hallway long after Elara disappeared, letting the quiet settle in a way that didn’t feel like quiet at all. It felt like a residue, something left behind after a storm—not the destruction itself, but the thin film of pressure that clung to the walls once everything had stopped moving. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. The corridor smelled of antiseptic and warmed plastics and the faint burn of cautery drifting out from behind the doors he had only just stepped through. Someone had pushed the crash cart back into alignment. Someone else had wiped the streak of blood on the tiles. A pair of nurses whispered to each other near the station, their voices too low to decipher but sharp enough around the edges to tell him they were still shaken. Everything around him had resumed its rhythm. He hadn’t.

He dragged a hand down his face, pausing when his fingers brushed his jaw. The skin there felt too warm. Too awake. His pulse beat against the pads of his fingers, uneven and insistent, a reminder that the adrenaline running through him had no intention of leaving soon. He lowered his hand slowly, forcing the movement into steadiness, then forced his shoulders into the familiar posture that let people believe he was fine. Posture was easier than honesty. Posture didn’t betray him.

He knew he needed to move. Knew exactly what waited for him at the end of the hallway. The family. The conversation. The weight of telling the truth gently enough to keep hope intact but honestly enough not to lie. It was a balance he had learned too well—not from training, not from textbooks, but from nights like this, when the line between saving and losing narrowed into something thin and sharp.

He stepped away from the wall. His feet felt heavier than they should have, each step deliberate, quiet. The polished floor reflected the ceiling lights in a broken pattern, casting his shadow across the corridor in long, uneven shapes. He walked past the nurses’ station, catching a few glances that quickly dropped. They knew the look on his face. They knew what came next. No one ever envied the role he was walking toward.

The family notice him before he speaks. They stand too quickly—three silhouettes against the muted glow of the waiting room. A mother twisting the fabric of her sleeves. A father leaning forward slightly, palms pressed on his knees like the only thing holding him upright. A daughter barely old enough to be allowed inside this wing of the hospital, her fingers wrapped around the strap of her bag as though letting go might make the world tilt again.

Adrian doesn’t sit. He never sits for these conversations. Sitting feels too close, too equal, too vulnerable. Standing lets him hold himself together.

“He made it through the procedure,” he says. The words are calm, steady, clinically softened. “He’s in the ICU now. He’s stable, but we’re not out of danger yet.”

The mother’s breath catches on the way out. The father nods, but the movement is stiff, almost mechanical. The daughter whispers, “Thank you,” barely audible.

Adrian gives a slight nod in return. He doesn’t let the gratitude settle. It has no place in him tonight.

“Can we see him?” the mother asks.

“Soon,” he replies. “They’re still getting him settled. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

It’s the truth, but not the whole truth. He doesn’t tell them the boy coded twice. Doesn’t tell them he hesitated. Doesn’t tell them that for a full second, he thought they were losing him. Doesn’t tell them his hands are still trembling. Tonight is not the night for that kind of honesty.

The mother steps forward like she might touch his arm, then pulls back. “Thank you,” she says again. “For saving him.”

He almost corrects her. Almost. But the look in their eyes—the fragile relief, the trembling hope—stops him.

“You’re welcome,” he says, the lie gentle enough not to break anything.

When he steps out of the room, the door closes softly behind him. He stands there with his hand still on the metal handle, listening to the muffled release of tension from inside. Soft crying. A whispered prayer. The quiet thud of someone sitting down after holding themselves too tightly for too long. It sinks into him, heavy and slow. He breathes it in because he doesn’t know what else to do.

  

He doesn’t look for Elara. He tells himself there’s no reason to.

But her voice lingers anyway.

You should wash the blood off.

He crosses the corridor toward the scrub room, passing a window that throws his reflection back at him. The harsh lights make him look older than he should—drained, hollowed out, a faint dark line of dried blood trailing from the edge of his jaw to the curve of his neck. He stops walking. For a moment, he just stares at himself, breathing lightly through his nose as something tightens in his chest.

He touches the dried blood with the tips of his fingers. It flakes away easily, leaving faint red smudges on his skin. He doesn’t know why it bothers him in a different way now—why her words echo the way they do.

Inside the scrub room, the lights are lower, the air cooler. He turns on the faucet and waits until the water runs cold before cupping it and pulling it over his face. The shock hits him like a small jolt. He repeats it again. And again. Each pass numbs a little more of the aftershocks still running under his skin. Water drips down his hands, falling silently onto the steel basin.

He braces himself on the edges of the sink, leaning forward until his forehead nearly touches the mirror. His breath fogs the lower half of the glass. He closes his eyes briefly and lets the surface cool his skin. Outside the room, a door shuts. Footsteps pass. Voices murmur. The world keeps moving.

He doesn’t.

Not yet.

When he finally opens his eyes, the reflection staring back at him is too raw, too tired, too aware. The redness at the corners of his eyes betrays everything he’s spent years training himself not to show. He pushes away from the sink, gripping the towel tightly as he dries his hands. The roughness of the fabric grounds him more than the cold water did.

He runs through the checklist in his mind:  

Check on the patient.  

Review the labs.  

Talk to ICU.  

Write the operative note cleanly.  

Reconstruct the case in a narrative that makes sense.  

Account for every second of the procedure.  

Every hesitation.  

Every choice.

He tells himself that’s why his chest hurts.

Not because of her.  

Not because of the way she looked at him.  

Not because of the silence he chose when she asked him to speak.

He steps out of the scrub room, the hallway opening in front of him like a long, bright corridor he isn't sure he's ready to walk through. The lights hum. The machines hum. His pulse hums against the inside of his wrist. He forces his shoulders back into their familiar place.

Then he walks.

He doesn’t realize his hands are still trembling until he reaches the end of the corridor.