7.Sirens,Screams and Duty
Ryle lay sprawled on his bed in his comfiest cloths, phone hovering above his face, one sock on and one mysteriously missing. His room looked like a law textbook had exploded next to a can of Red Bull.
He wasn’t studying. Obviously.
Instead, he was deep in the Instagram spiral—liking memes, watching dog videos, and ignoring every single one of Lara’s texts.
He sighed dramatically. “God, I need a vacation. Or therapy. Or both.”
Swipe. Swipe. Double-tap.
And then—
He froze.
There she was.
@RiaWalter_Official
Ryle blinked.
That same girl from the fashion show. The one with murder in her eyes and royalty in her strut.
Her page was fire.
Bold colors. Killer captions. Designs that looked like they could make the fabric cry from fierceness.
And her.
Modeling her own stuff, chin up, gaze sharp, not a single apology in sight.
Ryle zoomed in like a stalker with no shame. “Okay but why does she look even more dangerous on camera?”
He clicked her bio.
| Fashion design student | Final Year | Chaos stitched with ambition | All business, no backup.
Ryle let out a low whistle. “Damn. She really said ‘Don’t talk to me unless you can match my freak.’”
He scrolled down more.
There it was. A picture from the night of the showcase.
Caption:
“They can rig my moment, but not my style.”
And the comments? Blowing up with support.
Ryle stared at it, heart slowly dropping into his stomach.
“She knows.”
Of course she knew. That glare she gave him… it wasn’t confused. It was calculated.
“She went back, heard me and Lara, and never said a word.”
He sat up straight, phone still in hand, eyes wide.
“Oh, crap. I’m so screwed.I pocked a sleeping lioness with all lipstick shades.”
Neil Morris had barely spoken all week.
His coat was on before sunrise. His rounds were longer. His charts were more thorough. His words—when he chose to use them—were colder than usual.
“Vitals?”
“Follow up tomorrow.”
“Adjust the dosage. Don’t argue.”
No one dared to say much. Especially not Eva.
She watched from behind her clipboard, sneaking glances when he wasn’t looking. There was something heavy in his expression. Like he was somewhere else entirely—but refusing to leave the hospital until the weight drowned.
Every time she thought of asking if he was okay, her inner voice whispered:
You’re just a resident. Not his therapist.
Not his friend. Not yet.
So she kept to her charts. Asked questions about procedures. Never about him.
He answered everything professionally. On point. No trace of warmth. No echo of the man who once noticed she skipped lunch and left her coffee without a word.
They respected the lines.
Here, they were just doctors.
It had been raining all day.
Not the soft, poetic kind—this was drama-level rain. Umbrellas flipping, jeans soaked through, thunder that sounded like the sky lost its temper.
The hospital, however, was calm.
Quiet wards. Fewer emergencies. A rare lull.
Eva finally decided to take a proper break. She texted Lexi:
"Cafeteria. I need fries. Bring your sarcasm."
Lexi:
"On my way. I bring drama too. Just in case."
They found a corner table, far from the vending machine hum. Eva nursed a lukewarm cappuccino while Lexi devoured a plate of fries like it was a personal therapy.
“Okay, but explain this to me,” Lexi said between bites. “How can a man be that good at surgery but still fold his sleeves unevenly? Neil Morris needs help. Professional. Help.”
Eva giggled. “You noticed the sleeves too?”
“I notice everything, babe. That man’s carrying demons, and a tailor could probably fix half of them.”
Eva smiled but didn’t reply. Her heart fluttered weirdly at the mention of Neil—even if Lexi had no idea what kind of storm he was silently carrying.
Trent appeared with a dramatic sigh, slamming his ID badge on the table. “I swear to God, if one more patient tells me they Googled their symptoms, I’m going to fake a seizure.”
Lexi: “Mood.”
Eva: “What did Google say you had?” chuckled.
Trent deadpanned, “Death. Immediate. Because apparently I have a crisis of food.”
They all cracked up, enjoying a rare moment of fun in the middle of white coats, sharp tools, and endless charts.
Eva finally leaned back and sighed. “You know, this feels weird.”
Lexi looked up. “What?”
“No emergencies. No screaming. Just… fries and sarcasm.”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “Don’t jinx it.”
And then it happened.
The hospital speakers buzzed overhead.
“All available staff to ER. Repeat—all hands on deck. Mass casualty event incoming. School bus. Truck collision. ETA: 7 minutes.”
Silence. Then a gasp from the nurse at the counter.
Another voice echoed across reception:
“Multiple pediatric cases incoming. Trauma team prepare. All departments, report to stations.”
The air shifted. Like lightning had just cracked through the hospital walls.
Lexi dropped her fries. Trent stood up in one motion.
Eva’s smile vanished.
And without needing to say a word, the three of them bolted toward the emergency wing—coats flying, hearts racing, adrenaline kicking in.
Because when the storm finally came, it wasn’t from the sky.
It was from the emergency room, the ambulance siren was echoing from the ground floor.
It was children. Blood. Screams. And duty.
Outside Emergency Bay – 4:24 PM
The storm hadn’t stopped.
The rain now poured like it was angry at the world, drenching the pavement, blurring headlights, and soaking through scrubs and shoes. But no one moved back.
Every available doctor, nurse, intern, and orderly was already lined up under the canopy outside the Emergency Bay.
Gurneys prepped. Gloves on. Stretchers being rolled. Lights flashing.
It looked like a war zone waiting for its wounded.
Eva stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Lexi and Trent, chest rising fast, her face a portrait of focused fear. She could hear her own heartbeat louder than the thunder. Raindrops slid down her forehead, but she didn’t wipe them.
And then—sirens.
So many of them.
Red and blue lights swirled in the distance, growing louder and closer, until they weren’t lights anymore—they were screams. Chaos. Metal wheels on wet ground.
The ambulances came one by one, breaking through the rain like ships returning from a wreck. Doors slammed open, paramedics shouting codes and vitals.
“We’ve got a boy, 6 years, semi-conscious, head trauma—BP dropping!”
“Compound fracture—femur, possible internal bleeding!”
“Severe burns on the chest, girl, age 8—needs airway secured!”
Neil was already there.
Soaked from head to toe, jaw tight, eyes sharp. His hair dripped water down his neck, gloves already on, voice slicing through the chaos with terrifying calm.
“This one goes to Traumatic brain injury
Bay 1. Call Dr. Rachael now.”
“You—stabilize her vitals, get me a chest tube kit now.”
“Eva, you're with me—left side. Keep pressure on that wound!” neil screamed.
She jumped into action without question, pushing the stretcher alongside him as a tiny girl cried out on the gurney, blood mixing with rainwater.
Lexi grabbed gauze. Trent took vitals. The emergency ward buzzed like a hive of desperate, determined bees.
Inside, monitors beeped, feet shuffled fast, oxygen tanks were rolled in. The smell of antiseptic, blood, wet clothes, and fear all merged into one.
Eva felt like her body was moving faster than her brain.
Clamp. Stitch. Suction. Monitor.
Neil’s voice kept cutting through, low and exact.
He wasn’t just a surgeon today—he was the anchor holding everything together.
There was no sign of his earlier silence. No distraction. Just raw precision and terrifying focus.
She caught herself watching him between compressions. The way his hands moved. The way he calmed a screaming child with nothing but a look. The way he didn’t panic—he simply did.
Even when the girl’s pulse dipped.
Even when her tiny fingers went cold.
Neil didn’t flinch.
He fought.
The storm outside hadn’t eased, but inside, the ER was now alive with its own thunder—orders shouted, monitors beeping, and gurneys wheeled at record speed.
Lexi, who was usually known for her sass and sarcasm, had transformed into full medical mode—hair tied high, gloves snapped, voice sharp.
She’d just finished securing an IV line when a voice behind her said,
“You. Are you free?”
She turned, half annoyed, half out of breath—only to find herself facing a tall man with perfectly fitting scrubs, and the kind of jawline that belonged in toothpaste ads.
Dr. Lucas Reed.
Orthopedic Surgeon. New. British. Ridiculously charming. And unfortunately—aware of it.
Lexi blinked and rushed holding the bleeding leg the child with cotton.
“Good. You’re sharp. Follow me—we’ve got a boy with a femur fracture, age nine, impact trauma. Let’s see if you can handle the bones today.”
Lexi felt stuck for a second staring, then hurried after him. “on it Dr. Lucas.” voice sharp.
“Excellent. Keeps things exciting.”
They reached Trauma Room 3, where a young boy lay crying, his right leg twisted unnaturally, his hands gripping the stretcher sheets.
“Name’s Aron,” one of the paramedics said. “Says he can’t feel below the knee. No open wounds, but probable mid-shaft femur fracture—blunt trauma.”
Lucas crouched beside the bed, his voice instantly calm and kind.
“Hey, champ. We’re gonna fix you up, alright? But I’m going to need your help. Can you take a deep breath for me?”
Lexi was already at his side, gloving up, prepping the traction kit.
She glanced over and saw him giving the boy a small smile. “That’s it. You’re doing great. You’re tougher than half the doctors here.”
Lexi felt it was on her, checking the vitals.
They worked in sync.
Lexi handled the prep, Lucas guided the team, explaining every move—traction alignment, stability check, temporary splint.
No awkward tension. Just high-speed, high-stakes synergy.
And maybe a side dish of eye contact.
When the procedure ended, the boy was calmer, splint stabilized, and his pain finally managed.
Lexi handed off the chart and pulled her gloves off with a satisfied sigh.
Lucas leaned closer, just enough for her to hear. “Good.”
And here—the hallway buzzed with urgency, grief, adrenaline, and decisions made on instinct.
Eva had just handed over her case report when she heard his voice.
“Walter,” Neil called out, sharp but clear.
She turned instantly, heart skipping.
He was already halfway across the hallway in his soaked scrubs and gloves on. His tone was controlled, but his pace screamed emergency.
“Scrub in. You’re with me.”
Eva blinked. “Me?”
“Now.”
She didn’t wait for a second confirmation. She dropped her chart, her legs somehow running before her brain could even catch up.
They walked side by side, fast but focused, toward the OT wing. Neil didn’t say much, but his voice echoed through the hallway to the nurse at the prep desk.
“Prep Operating Theatre 2 for cardiac emergency. Patient name—Aarvi, 7 years old. Suspected ruptured septum, high pulse pressure, shallow respiration. Confirm with Dr. Ravi for immediate bypass support. Intubation required. We’re not losing her.”
This is real. This isn’t a simulation. This is a child’s heart. And I am scrubbing in for the surgery. It was her first.Eva swallowed hard.
You can’t mess this up, Eva.
Trust yourself. Don’t faint. Don’t cry.
Okay, maybe breathe? Breathe. Now scrub.
Neil was already disinfecting beside her, his movements methodical, fast, and confident.
She stole a glance. And he noticed she was coping with him and trying hard to be as fast as him even though it was her first time to the OT.
She whispered, mostly to herself, “You’ve got this.”
He didn’t look at her, but as if sensing her nerves, he said lowly, “This girl’s got a fighting chance. But we move fast, stay sharp.”
Eva nodded. “Yes, sir.”
As they walked through the sterile doors into the OT, masked and gloved, Eva’s fear didn’t leave her—but it folded quietly beneath the weight of something greater:
Responsibility. Trust. And maybe... pride.
Because today, she wasn’t just another resident following orders.
Today, she was scrubbing in with Dr. Neil Morris—and saving a little girl’s life.