1. Just Another Tuesday
CHAPTER 1
Just Another Tuesday
T he alarm's digital chirp sliced through the dark at 4:30 AM, and I smacked it silent with the muscle memory of someone who'd done this thousands of times before. My fingers knew exactly where to land, just like they knew how to find a vein in the dark or intubate without looking up.
Steam curled from the coffee maker, the bitter smell filling my too-quiet apartment. The machine hummed and sputtered, pushing out enough coffee for two mugs because I was too much of a coward to change the settings. Every morning, watching that second serving spiral down the drain, my chest tight with the stupid symbolism of it all.
The harsh fluorescent light of my bathroom made my face look like shit in the mirror, but at least the white coat was crisp. I straightened my tie - navy blue, because Michael had bought me a whole collection of them, insisting they made me look “distinguished.” Chief of Emergency Medicine Dr. Eli Monroe stared back at me, bags under his eyes that could be blamed on overnight traumas rather than nights spent staring at the ceiling.
Michael's side of the closet loomed like a shrine, all designer suits wrapped in plastic like fucking artifacts in a museum. I could still hear him .
“You're a department chief now, babe,” that crooked smile of his as he'd fix my collar. “Time to dress like one.”
The TV blared its morning propaganda while I clutched my coffee, avoiding the antique table we'd rescued from some overpriced Brooklyn shop. The wobbly leg still caught my hip sometimes when I passed, a physical reminder I couldn't bring myself to fix. Michael used to spend these mornings ranting at the news anchors, his coffee getting cold while he gestured at their “bullshit economic analysis.”
I stabbed the power button at 4:45, silence flooding back in.
The 5 AM subway car reeked of night shift sweat and early morning desperation. I planted my feet in a wide stance, one hand white-knuckled on the pole while I swiped through patient files. The train lurched and swayed, but my body compensated without thinking.
Michael's voice ghosted through my head: “Your subway surfing skills are getting pretty impressive.” He'd always hover nearby, pretending to catch me, making a whole dramatic production out of it. The memory sucker-punched me in the gut, but I buried it under Mrs. Chen's post-op notes like I buried everything else. Vitals stable. Margins clear. Move the fuck on.
Movement flickered in my peripheral - Dr. Yang, our new ortho resident, trying to disappear behind her phone. The fear rolling off her was practically visible, and I knew why. Last week's M&M conference had been brutal, watching me tear her attending a new one over a preventable death. I'd laid out every mistake with surgical precision while the other residents sat frozen, learning exactly what happened when you got sloppy.
“You're being harsh again,” Michael would have said, with that soft look he'd get. But Michael was gone, and harsh kept people breathing. Harsh meant everyone stayed sharp. Harsh meant I didn't have to watch another family fall apart in my ER.
The brakes screamed as we hit 168th Street. By the time I stepped onto the platform, I'd locked everything personal away behind the Chief of Emergency Medicine mask. Professional distance wrapped around me like armor.
Just another fucking Tuesday.
The cold slapped my face as I emerged from the subway, New York-Presbyterian's massive silhouette looming against the purple-black sky like some ancient fortress. Light blazed from every window, a middle finger to the darkness. Six years ago, those lights had meant hope. Now they just reminded me of all the people we couldn't put back together.
My badge beeped me through the staff entrance at 5:15, right on fucking schedule. Roberto barely glanced up from his crossword, our daily ritual as meaningless as my second cup of coffee.
“Quiet night?” “So far, Dr. Monroe.”
The elevator's fluorescent buzz filled forty-seven seconds while I scrolled through overnight reports, the words blurring together. MVAs, GSWs, cardiac events - all “routine,” which made my stomach clench. Any ER doc worth their salt knew “routine” was the universe's favorite joke.
The doors opened onto controlled chaos - monitors screaming their electronic panic, nurses speed-walking with that distinct “shit's about to go down” energy, the night shift passing their battles to the incoming day warriors like a game of medical hot potato.
“Board meeting at 2 PM.” Sofia materialized beside me, armed with actually-hot coffee unlike the lukewarm piss I'd been nursing. Three heartbeats of silence.
“Vale is pushing his neurology expansion agenda again,” she continued, her voice dripping with that special contempt she reserved for hospital politics. “He's got half the board convinced we need a dedicated neurosurgical trauma unit. Which would mean?— ”
“Cutting into Emergency Department funding,” I finished, my fingers cramping around the tablet. The bitter irony twisted in my gut like a rusty knife - Vale pushing for the exact unit that could've saved Michael when they'd wasted precious minutes transferring him after the crash. The universe's sick sense of humor never got old.
Lock. It. Down.
Numbers swam across my screen - bed capacity, wait times, patient satisfaction scores. As if you could quantify death in fucking pie charts, measure grief in percentages.
Sofia's report came in precise surgical strikes: heart attack in catheterization, diabetic emergencies in medical, possible stroke in CT. Her voice rose just enough to scatter the vulture-circle of nurses hovering near my office.
Three seconds. Breathe.
The trauma alert shattered everything. “Multiple casualties incoming. Construction site collapse downtown. First ambulance, four minutes out.”
Time crystallized into diamond-sharp focus. My body moved on autopilot, Sofia half a step behind like my shadow.
“Page trauma surgery and orthopedics,” I barked, wrestling with the trauma gown.
The smell of latex gloves hit me like a punch to the throat - paramedic stripping off bloody gloves, shaking his head, Michael's blood still warm on my hands-
“Initial report indicates at least six critical patients,” Sofia's voice cut through the flashback like a scalpel. “Partial building collapse, approximately twenty total casualties. They're routing the most severe cases to us.”
The ER transformed around us, this beautiful terrible machine clicking into war mode. Nurses cleared trauma bays like bouncers at last call, techs prepped equipment with military precision, residents materializing from whatever corners they'd been hiding in.
The first ambulance screamed in at 10:47, the siren hitting that exact pitch that made my heart stutter. Sofia shifted closer - my human guardrail against the memories threatening to drag me under. The next forty minutes became a blur of blood and desperate decisions.
Each victim brought their own symphony of chaos: construction foreman with his chest caved in like a broken birdcage, office worker with rebar through her torso like some twisted modern art, young engineer whose legs looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to marble.
I conducted this orchestra of trauma like a possessed maestro, my voice carrying over the cacophony of death trying its best to win.
“Type and cross-match four units!”
“Get me trauma surgery, now!”
“Where the fuck is radiology with that chest film?”
The metallic stench of blood mixed with concrete dust and something else - gasoline? No. Not here. Not now. Focus, you stupid fuck.
“Multiple long bone fractures, suspected internal bleeding,” a paramedic called out. The gurney wheels shrieked against tile, morphing into the sound of metal kissing metal at 60 mph-
Three seconds. That was the rule. But rules meant jack shit to trauma-induced PTSD.
“Doctor Monroe?” Yang's voice yanked me back. Here. Now. Living patients.
“CBC, metabolic panel, portable chest,” I rattled off, my voice steady even as my pulse did the cha-cha. “Trauma panel and-”
The next victim came in wearing a crown of glass shards, blood painting abstract patterns on their skin. Suddenly I was kneeling on wet asphalt, pressing against Michael's chest while his life leaked between my fingers, begging him to stay, just fucking stay-
“Doctor Monroe!” Sofia's voice cracked like a whip. “Trauma One is coding!”
I moved before thought, fresh gloves snapping on. The foreman lay there, his chest a roadmap of broken bones beneath frantic hands. The monitor wailed its death song - v-tach, no pulse. Just like-
Different patient. Different day. Different ending.
“Beginning CPR,” I announced, hands finding their home on shattered sternum. Each compression precise, measured. Don't think about counting on another chest, don't think about the way ribs feel when they're already broken...
“Push one of epi. Charge to 200.”
The defibrillator's whine merged with phantom sirens, radio static, that goddamn paramedic's voice saying “Time of death...”
“Clear!” The foreman danced his electric jig. Still v-tach. Fuck.
“300 joules.” Another shock. Nothing. Just like- No.
“Again.” Voice steady as a surgeon's hands, even as sweat traced ice-cold fingers down my spine. Different patient. Different day. “Another epi. Where's my fucking chest tube?”
The team moved like a single organism, each piece knowing its dance. Time stretched like taffy, measured in heartbeats and breathing tubes and jolts of electricity. We fought death with science and stubbornness and sheer fucking spite.
“Converting to sinus rhythm,” someone called out. “BP coming up, 90/60.”
I stripped off the gloves, movements mechanical. My hands didn't shake anymore. I'd built walls thick enough to contain earthquakes, buried everything deep enough that nothing could surface.
That's when I felt it - that prickle at the base of your neck when someone's got their crosshairs on you. I looked up through the observation window, and reality did a sideways shuffle.
He stood there like a statue among the chaos, some fucking Renaissance painting dropped into a war zone. Charcoal suit that somehow repelled the blood and grime in the air, dark hair going silver at the temples like he'd planned it. But those eyes - Christ, those eyes. Deep blue and ancient as sin, filled with something that felt like recognition. Like he knew every secret I'd buried under six years of carefully constructed control.
Three seconds for memories. That was the rule.
But this wasn't memory - this was something else. Something cracked in my fortress walls. A spark of... something. Dangerous. Electric. Familiar in a way that made my brain itch, like a word stuck on the tip of your tongue. For a moment, the ghosts that haunted me seemed to fade, replaced by others I couldn't quite grasp-
The monitor chirped its warning, yanking me back to the bleeding, broken present. When I looked up again, he was gone. The space where he'd stood felt wrong somehow, like someone had cut a hole in reality.
“Doctor Monroe?” Sofia's voice carried that note of concern I couldn't afford to acknowledge. “Another critical incoming. And Vale's breathing down my neck about bed capacity.”
I shoved the strange moment into the box with all the other things I couldn't look at too closely. The smell of blood and betadine anchored me to now. This was real. This was where I could still make a difference.
“Tell Vale he'll get his update when I'm done keeping people alive.” The words came out sharp enough to cut, but Sofia just nodded.
“Two minutes to arrival,” the speaker announced. “Multiple trauma, suspected closed head injury with midline shift...”
I moved toward the ambulance bay, already focused on the next crisis. But something had shifted, like a key turning in a lock I hadn't known existed. The feeling lingered, an echo of those blue eyes that had seen straight through my carefully maintained bullshit.
The ER settled into that weird post-battle quiet, like a war zone after the bombs stop falling. Three patients patched up enough for ICU, two walking wounded sent home with prescriptions and prayers, and one... one joining the ghosts that already haunted these halls.
I ripped off my trauma gown, cramming it into the biohazard bin with enough force to make the lid rattle. Exhaustion crept in like a bad hangover while I typed up my notes, each clinical phrase a wall between me and the memories scratching at the back of my skull.
But it wasn't the trauma cases playing on repeat in my head. It was him - Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Impossible from the window. His face stuck there like gum on a shoe, refusing to be filed away in my neat little boxes of repression.
Sofia materialized with her usual lifeline - protein bar and coffee that actually resembled coffee. She'd stopped asking if I was okay after Michael died. We both knew that was a bullshit question.
“You good?” she asked instead, keeping it light while her eyes did their PhD-level analysis of my mental state.
We pretended she meant the trauma cases, the dead kid. Not the way my hands had betrayed me for a split second when that victim came in wearing glass like diamonds in his skin...
Three seconds. Lock it down.
“Board meeting in thirty,” Sofia cut in, watching me with that look that said she saw too damn much. “Better change before Vale starts his fashion critique. Again.”
I grabbed my tablet, grateful for the escape route. The protein bar went into my pocket like always - another prop in this play I was performing. But I took the coffee. Some habits were worth keeping.
My office closet held the backup suit like some kind of security blanket. Michael's idea - “You never know when you'll need to look the part,” he'd say, fixing my tie with that crooked smile that always made me feel like-
Three seconds. Fucking stop.
I changed like a soldier prepping for battle, each movement measured and controlled. The charcoal grey suit was another one of Michael's picks, armor made of designer labels. Today it felt about as protective as tissue paper.
The construction proposal glared at me from my desk. I forced myself to focus on the Rothschild Development plans, searching for anything that might screw with ambulance access - exactly the kind of ammo Vale would love to use in his neurosurgery crusade.
The boardroom buzzed like a hornet's nest when I walked in, Vale holding court like some discount Zeus among his followers. His silver hair caught the fluorescent light while he worked his charm, board members clustering around him like moths to a flame. The bastard had a gift for making everyone feel like they were in on some brilliant scheme.
I took my usual spot, laying out my weapons - data, statistics, cold hard facts. Six years of these meetings had taught me the choreography: Vale would push his agenda, I'd counter with logic, and the board would waffle like professional politicians. Same shit, different Tuesday.
Then the air changed.
It hit like the pressure drop before a storm, making my skin prickle. My head snapped up before I could stop myself, pulled by something I didn't want to analyze too closely.
He stood in the doorway like he owned the fucking universe, not just the building. That suit - charcoal grey like mine but somehow more real - seemed to eat light rather than reflect it. His presence filled the room like smoke, making everything else fade to background noise.
Our eyes met.
Three seconds. That was the rule.
But time went sideways, reality bending around that blue-steel gaze. The same electric shock from the ER hit me again, making my heart forget its rhythm .
“Mister Rothschild, welcome to Presbyterian.” Bennett's voice shattered the moment like glass. “We're honored to have you join us today.”
Alexander Rothschild.
The name hit like a punch to the gut, familiar in a way that made zero sense, impossible in a way I couldn't ignore. My carefully constructed reality trembled like a house of cards in a hurricane.
He moved through the room like a predator playing at being human. Everything about him screamed old money and older power, from his perfectly styled hair with its artistic touch of grey to shoes that probably cost more than my car. And yet...
There was something else. Something in the way he carried himself, like a warrior wearing Armani instead of armor. Something in those ancient eyes that saw right through my professional bullshit, straight through six years of carefully built walls.
“Doctor Monroe.” His voice reached across the table and grabbed me by the spine. “I've heard impressive things about your work here.”
“Mister Rothschild.” My voice stayed steady through sheer fucking willpower. “I wasn't aware you had taken an interest in our hospital.”
“Please,” he smiled, and something deep in my chest ached like a badly healed wound, “call me Alex.”
The meeting lurched forward with fake normalcy. Vale worked his silver-tongued magic about the neurosurgery unit, smooth as expensive scotch. I fired back with my arsenal of data and survival rates. Our usual dance, but today the music was all wrong.
Alex commanded the room like he'd been born to it. His voice carried something ancient and electric as he laid out the Rothschild Development Project like a general planning a campaign. Modern medical buildings, better roads, special ambulance routes. His eyes locked onto mine at that last bit, sending another impossible jolt through my system .
“Of course,” he continued, voice hitting notes that made my spine tingle, “we want to make sure our plans help rather than hurt hospital operations. Which is why I'd like a complete tour of the Emergency Department.” Those blue eyes pinned me like butterflies in a display case. “From you, Doctor Monroe, if you're willing.”
The room went dead quiet. Even Vale's plastic smile cracked around the edges.
I met Alex's gaze across the boardroom battlefield, knowing with bone-deep certainty that my carefully constructed world was about to go up in flames.
“Of course,” I heard myself say, words dropping into that charged silence like stones in a still pond. “It would be my pleasure.”
Sofia was going to rip me a new one.
The meeting dissolved into a blur of paperwork and fake smiles. I gathered my shit with robot precision, my skin crawling with awareness of Alex across the room. He worked the crowd like a pro, but his attention felt like a laser sight between my shoulder blades.
“Eli.” Vale's honey-poisoned voice caught me at the door. “A moment?”
I turned, professionalism holding on by its fingernails. “Doctor Vale?”
“I trust you'll give Mister Rothschild a... thorough understanding of our space constraints.” His grey eyes glittered like a snake's before it strikes. “We wouldn't want him to underestimate our need for expansion.”
“I always aim for thoroughness,” I kept my voice flat as Kansas. “If you'll excuse me, I have patients waiting.”
I escaped into the hallway, but not before catching Alex's slight smile. The bastard hadn't missed a word.
Walking back to my office felt like crossing a minefield in tap shoes. Each step brought me closer to whatever impossible thing had started when those blue eyes found mine through the observation window.
Three seconds. That was my rule for memories and mayhem.
But somehow I knew this wasn't about the past anymore. This was something else. Something new. Something that felt dangerously like hope.