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.
He used to cover the length of the ER in long, confident strides. Now, each step felt heavier, his frame seeming to shrink under the weight of the night.
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, barely reaching Elias's shoulder, looked up at him with a mixture of awe and concern. He was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and clearly hadn't learned the golden rule of the ER: never question a senior doctor before their second coffee.
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, with his long legs, easily 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.
"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 double doors of the emergency room swung open, setting the stage for a scene that could have been ripped straight from a medical drama—except here, there were no retakes. Chaos greeted them like an unwelcome guest.
The first gurney rolled in, carrying a young man whose blood-soaked shirt clung to his body, a grim reminder of the bad decisions that had led him here. His face twisted in pain, his eyes wild—half from the agony, half from the realization of his own recklessness.
Two more gurneys followed, each a testament to why bar fights were never a good idea.
Dr. Ramirez barely spared a glance before barking orders, "Stab wounds to the chest and abdomen! The patient is in hemorrhagic shock—take him to OR One, now!" His voice was sharp, commanding, that of a man who had seen far too many nights end like this.
Elias moved to the next patient—a woman in her early thirties, her breath shallow and uneven. One look at her leg told him everything he needed to know: blood was pouring from a deep wound in her thigh, its pulse matching the frantic rhythm of her heart.
Damn. Arterial bleed.
"Alright, let's get this under control before we turn this place into a horror movie," Elias muttered, pressing gauze firmly against the wound. The woman winced, her fingers gripping the edge of the gurney.
"Think the guy who stabbed you ended up worse?" he asked, nodding toward the man being rushed into surgery. "You should see him."
The woman let out a weak breath—half a laugh, half a pained sigh. "He's not the one who did it," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the commotion around them.
Elias raised an eyebrow. "He's not?"
Jenny, tightening a tourniquet around the woman's thigh, chimed in, "Cops said the real attacker was arrested at the scene. This guy?" She glanced toward the man being wheeled into the OR. "Just another unlucky victim."
Elias exhaled, a touch of irony in his voice. "Of course. Tonight just keeps getting better."
He pressed down harder, ensuring the bleeding slowed. "Get a transfusion ready, type and crossmatch her blood," he instructed.
Jenny pulled the tourniquet taut with practiced efficiency. "On it, Doc."
"Good. Move her to Trauma Bay Two!" Elias shot a glance at the ambulances still pulling up outside. "And get vascular surgery on the line—unless you guys want to play a guessing game with 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.
Maria.
The name on the medical bracelet wrapped around the woman's wrist. She was in no condition to introduce herself.
Her eyelids fluttered weakly, her gaze unfocused, her breathing short and irregular—too fast, too shallow. Her skin had taken on a pale, grayish hue, a color Elias had seen too many times before. Like a phone running on 1% battery with no charger in sight.
No… not on his watch.
"Maria," he called, his voice firm despite the chaos unfolding around them. "Hey, I need you to stay with me, okay? No passing out, no heading into the light—none of that nonsense right now."
His left hand was slick with blood as he pressed harder on the wound. The tourniquet Jenny had applied earlier was tight, but blood was still seeping through beneath it—a bad sign. The femoral artery was still leaking.
Not good.
He turned to Jenny. "Check the tourniquet pressure. Make sure it's tight enough to stop the bleeding completely."
Jenny gave a sharp nod, adjusting the strap. Meanwhile, Elias used his free hand to apply direct pressure just above the wound, right where the femoral artery should be. If the tourniquet wasn't fully stopping the bleeding, this would help slow it down.
One problem managed. Still a dozen more to go.
"Start an IV, wide open," he ordered. "We need large-bore access."
Jenny worked quickly, inserting a large-gauge IV catheter into Maria's arm and connecting it to a bag of saline. Blood loss was killing her. They had to replace volume before her pressure tanked completely.
Her breathing was still too fast and shallow. She's lost too much blood to keep her pressure stable.
Elias leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into a calmer but commanding tone. "Listen, Maria, I know this hurts—I get it. But you're a fighter. I can see it. You made it through whatever mess happened at that bar, so don't give up now."
Her fingers twitched slightly, barely perceptible, but enough for him to notice.
"Ah, that's the spirit I was hoping for," he murmured, keeping steady pressure on her wound.
Jenny glanced up after securing the IV. "Her blood type hasn't come back yet. Do you want to go with O-negative?"
"Yes," Elias nodded. "Start the transfusion. And get vascular surgery on standby—we'll need them the second we get her to the OR."
The surgical team arrived moments later, rolling in a gurney. Maria's eyelids flickered as they prepared to move her. For the second time, her eyes truly focused on Elias.
"Doctor…" she rasped.
Elias leaned in slightly, expecting some heartfelt expression of gratitude.
Instead, Maria squinted weakly. "Doctor… there's so much blood… everywhere."
Elias glanced down. His scrubs weren't blue anymore—just dark red, nearly soaked through. He exhaled heavily.
"Haha, yeah, not a great look," he muttered, half-joking. "But I still look good, right?"
She sent out a breathy, faint chuckle as they wheeled her away. He smirked. She'll be alright.
The bright, sterile operating room erased the chaos of the emergency department, leaving only the measured, steady voices of professionals at work.
Elias stood beside Dr. Singh, dressed in green scrubs and a surgical gown, his eyes locked on the wound before them. There was no room for doubt or hesitation—only precise action.
"Vitals?" he asked without looking up.
"Stable," replied Dr. Chen, the anesthesiologist. "Blood pressure 110/70, heart rate 90, regular. Perfusion is good."
Dr. Singh, a vascular surgeon with decades of experience, examined the wound with sharp focus. "Deep femoral artery laceration," he noted, using a retractor to expose the area further. "But clean. This should be repairable."
Elias nodded, ready to assist. Blood loss was still a major concern, even with the transfusion already in progress.
"Suction," he instructed, and the scrub nurse promptly positioned the suction device to clear the pooled blood.
Dr. Singh reached for a vascular clamp. "Clamping the artery. Elias, keep the bleeding under control."
Elias pressed sterile gauze around the wound, ensuring there were no additional leaks.
"Bleeding controlled," he confirmed.
"Good. Now we begin the anastomosis." Dr. Singh took a 6-0 Prolene suture, preparing to stitch the torn artery together.
Elias observed every movement carefully, his hands poised to assist. Even though he wasn't leading the surgery, the weight of responsibility still pressed down on him.
Maria drifted between consciousness and the effects of anesthesia, like a flickering candle in the midst of a storm. Elias could feel her presence. He wasn't a god or a miracle worker—despite the occasional jokes from the nurses—but this, at least, he could do.
He refused to let Maria meet the same fate as Tommy.
"Hey," Dr. Singh's voice cut through the tension. "Are you planning to stare at the artery until it heals itself, or are you going to help with the sutures?"
Elias blinked, shaking off the thoughts creeping into his mind. He grabbed the surgical forceps and assisted in guiding the suture through with precision.
"Sorry. Just trying to radiate some positive energy," he said.
"Uh-huh." Singh arched a brow. "How about contributing some stitches instead?"
Elias smirked. "On it."
Minutes later, the final vascular suture was secured, and the blood flow was restored. Dr. Singh exhaled in satisfaction.
"Perfusion is good. No leaks."
Now it was Elias's turn. He worked methodically, closing the wound layer by layer—fascia, subcutaneous tissue, and finally, the skin.
"She's going to make it," he whispered, almost like a prayer.
"Talking to unconscious patients again, Carter?" Dr. Singh glanced at him.
Elias simply shrugged as he secured the last stitch. "Hey, they're better listeners than most people."
He stepped back, peeled off his gloves, and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the stiffness.
It was done.
Maria was going to be okay.
And maybe… so was he.