“…what did I just do?”

“You Saved him.”

The answer came immediately.

I blinked.

The woman—my assistant, apparently—was already moving again, checking the patient’s vitals like nothing had just happened.

Like I hadn’t just—

“You stopped the bleeding before it reached the artery,” she added, almost absently. “Again.”

Again? My head snapped toward her. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

She paused this time. Actually paused.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, searching—like she was trying to figure out if I was joking.

“…Doctor,” she said slowly, “you’ve done this before.”

No. No, I hadn’t. I know at least that much.

“I—”

The door slammed open again.

“Another one!”

The interruption hit like a reset button.

Two men rushed in, carrying someone between them—limp, barely conscious, blood trailing behind them in uneven drops.

“Knife wound,” one of them said quickly. “Lower abdomen—he’s losing too much—”

“Put him down.”

My voice cut through theirs without effort. Clean. Sharp. They listened. Of course they did. Because apparently, this—this—this was normal.

I stepped forward again, hands already moving, scanning, assessing— Too much blood. Wrong angle. Internal bleeding? No—focus.

“Gauze.”

This time, there was no delay.

Good.

Better.

I worked.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until At some point, I stopped thinking about it. 

Patients came in one after another—cuts, gunshots, broken bones, things I didn’t want to look too closely at.

And every time—

My body moved. Instinctively. Like I know what subconsciously what I had to do. The body I seem to magically wake up in really knows everything.

Not perfectly. Never perfectly. There were still those moments—those brief, terrifying pauses where my mind went blank— since I didn't have any knowledge in this field of work. But when doubt would start creeping in, somehow something would snap into place. 

Like A memory that wasn’t mine. A step. A technique. A correction. But Just enough. Always just enough.

“Hold him still.”

“Not like that—do you want him to bleed out?”

“Pressure. There. No—there.”

My voice didn’t sound like mine anymore. Too steady.Too certain.Too—

Used to this.

It wasn’t until the fourth—or fifth—or maybe sixth patient that I noticed it. The looks. They weren’t subtle. Every time I stepped back, every time I finished, every time I spoke—

They were watching me. Not with relief. Not even with respect. Something else. Something heavier. Like they were waiting for something to go wrong.

Or—

Like it already had.

“…what?” I snapped, finally, when one of them didn’t look away fast enough.

The man stiffened. “Nothing.”

“Then stop staring,” I said flatly, tossing the bloodied gauze aside. “If you have time to watch me, you have time to make yourself useful.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But Just stood there. Wrong.

That was wrong. Somehow I could feel his hostility. Making Something in my chest tightened.

“Did you not hear me?” My tone sharpened. “Or do you need me to repeat myself?”

A shift.

Subtle. But there. The room got quieter. Tighter. The man’s jaw clenched slightly, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped just enough to feel like a warning.

“…you should watch how you speak.”

Ah.

There it was.

I stared at him. Really looked this time. Expensive clothes—ruined with blood, but still obvious. The way he stood. The way the others didn’t interrupt him.

Not just some random guy. Important. Someone used to being listened to. Someone used to—

“Or what?” I cut in.

Silence. Sharp. Immediate. The assistant stilled beside me. The others shifted. Waiting. For me to back down.

For me to realize. For me to fix it. But I didn’t. Knowing what This person... this body that I currently find myself in knows. They need me. I don't mean to be greedy nor overly self centered but that doesn't mean I will tolerate disrespect. Not to me at least.

Instead, I stepped closer. Not aggressive. Not loud. Just enough to make the distance between us feel intentional. Controlled.

“If you’re going to threaten me,” I said, voice low, even, “do it after I decide whether your friend lives or dies.”

His expression hardened. Mine didn’t change.

“In here,” I continued, glancing briefly toward the table behind me before looking back at him, “you don’t get special treatment.”

A beat. Then—

“You either listen,” I finished, “or you get out and find someone else to save him.”

No one spoke. No one moved. The tension stretched—

Then snapped.

“…fine,” he said, clipped, stepping back just slightly. “Do your job.”

I held his gaze for a second longer. Then turned away like he wasn’t worth it.

“Next time,” I added, already reaching for the gloves again, “lead with that. And Actually let me do it.”

A few quiet snorts came from somewhere in the room. Quickly smothered. Good. They should be aware, manners exist.

My hands moved again, slipping back into motion like nothing had happened.

Like my heart wasn’t beating just a little too fast.

Like I hadn’t just—

“…again.” The word echoed, breaking the trance I seem to be in.

Soft. Faint. But there. My movements slowed. Just for a second. Just long enough for it to catch up.

“You’ve done this before.” I say to myself once more.

My grip tightened slightly around the instrument in my hand.

Before. Again. The looks. The silence. The way no one questioned me—

Because they expected this. Because this wasn’t new. Because—

My breath caught.

Slowly—

Too slowly—

I looked down at my hands. Steady. Precise. Familiar. Yet, Not mine.

“…what the hell is going on…?”