My question hung in the air for exactly three seconds. Then the door slammed open. I jerk back a bit startled.

“Doctor—!”

I flinched.

A woman rushed in, already halfway across the room before I could even process what was happening. She didn’t look panicked—just urgent. Focused. Like this wasn’t unusual.

“You’re awake. Good. We have a situation.”

I stared at her.

“…what?”

She didn’t react to that. Didn’t question it. Didn’t even pause.

“Male, mid-thirties. Severe blood loss. They brought him in five minutes ago. I stabilized what I could, but—” she hesitated, just slightly, “—he needs you.”

Needs me? Who the heck could possibly need me right now?

“I think you have the wrong person,” I said automatically, pushing myself up from the bed. The room spun again, but less this time. Manageable. “I’m not—”

“You are,” she cut in, already turning toward the door. “And if you don’t come now, he won’t make it.”

Something in her tone snapped into place. Not panic. Expectation. Like she knew I would follow. I didn’t move.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Wrong room. Wrong place. Wrong—

“Doctor.”

She looked back at me this time. Directly. And there it was. Confusion. Not from her. From me.

“…you’re serious,” I said slowly.

Her brows pulled together slightly. “We don’t have time for this.”

Neither did I. Because my chest was still tight. My head still felt off. And nothing—nothing about this made sense. 

This had to be a dream.

Or—

Heaven.

The thought came out of nowhere, and somehow it made just enough sense to stick.

Yeah.

That had to be it.

I was dead.

And this—this was one of those things. Like in that tv show with the brothers. Damn! I forgot the name. Where you wake up somewhere that feels real, but isn’t. Where your brain fills in the gaps. 

That would explain the—

“Doctor.”

Right. Urgency. My gaze flicked back to her. If this was some kind of dream… then there weren’t consequences, right? No real risk. No real—Damage.

“Fine,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Lead the way.”

She didn’t question it.

Just turned and walked out.

And for some reason—

I followed.

The smell hit first. Sharp. Clean. Familiar in a way that made something in my chest tighten. Antiseptic. My steps slowed slightly as we moved down the hall, my eyes scanning everything without meaning to.

White walls.

Metal trays.

Closed doors.

Voices—low, tense, controlled. Not a hospital. Not exactly. But one in the making it seems.

Something… quieter.

Hidden.

“Through here.”

She pushed open a door. And everything—

Everything—

Shifted.

Blood. Too much of it.

The man on the table wasn’t moving. Pale. Barely breathing. Someone had already cut his shirt open—dark red soaked through what was left of it.

My body reacted before I could think.

“Move.”

The word came out sharp.

Not hesitant. Not unsure.

Just—Certain.

The people around the table froze for half a second. Then moved. Hands stepping back. Space clearing. Waiting. For me.

My feet carried me forward. Fast. Too fast. I didn’t question it. Didn’t stop. Didn’t think.

“Clamp,” I said, holding out my hand.

There was a delay. Half a second. Just enough for doubt to creep in—

Then something dropped into my palm. Metal. Cold. Familiar. My fingers adjusted automatically.

Grip shifting. Angle correcting. Like I’d done it a thousand times. I hadn’t thought. Had I?

My chest tightened. Focus. Bleeding first. Stop the bleeding. My hands moved. Not perfectly. Not smoothly. There was a hitch. A pause.

A flicker—

Wrong angle.

No—adjust.

Pressure here.

Not there.

The knowledge came in pieces. Broken. Delayed. But it came.

“Hold him steady,” I snapped when someone hesitated too long. “Or do you want him bleeding out on your shoes?”

They moved faster after that. Good. Better. My jaw clenched as I worked, breathing steady without me telling it to.

This—

This felt—

Right.

Wrong.

Both.

“Doctor—his pulse—”

“I know.”

I didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. “Stop talking unless it’s useful.”

Silence. Good. Minutes passed. Or seconds. I couldn’t tell. Time blurred into movement. Into instinct. Into fragments of knowledge that kept catching up just in time.

Not clean. Not perfect. But enough. Finally—

The bleeding slowed. Then stopped. I exhaled, slow and controlled, only realizing then that I’d been holding it.

“…he’ll live,” I said.

My voice sounded distant.

Like it belonged to someone else. No one spoke. No one moved. They were all—

Looking at me. Waiting. For what? I stepped back.

My hands—

Steady. Not shaking. Not even a little. That was wrong. That was so—

“…what did I just do?”