Chapter 3
ROWAN
Normal comes back in pieces. It slips into place the way muscle memory does, and your hands know what to do before your brain catches up.
I walk through the sliding doors of Charlotte Memorial like I always do, badge clipped to my scrub pocket, coffee balanced in one hand, and hair twisted into a braided bun that will loosen by hour three whether I like it or not.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, their persistent drone filling the spaces between conversations and footsteps.
Monitors beep steadily from the nurses' station.
The air smells like antiseptic and burned coffee, the brew left too long on the break room burner.
This is my world. It's supposed to keep me centered. Instead, it feels thin and fragile. Like one wrong breath could tear it open and expose what lies underneath.
I make it through morning rounds on autopilot, my voice calm as I discuss labs and imaging, my posture composed as I lean over beds and listen to lungs and hearts.
The residents trail behind me, scribbling notes and asking questions I answer without thinking.
My colleagues don't notice anything out of the ordinary.
They wouldn't. I've built a career on competence and composure, being the one who doesn't rattle when everyone else does.
The attending physician nods at my assessment of a post-op patient, his silver hair shimmering in the overhead lights as he flips through the chart.
A nurse squeezes my shoulder in passing, her scrubs rustling softly, her smile warm and familiar.
But when I scrub in for my first procedure of the day, my hands betray me.
The tremor is subtle at first, just a faint vibration in my fingers as I pull on my gloves and snap them into place.
The latex stretches tight across my palms, the powder inside leaving my skin feeling dry.
I pause, flexing my hands once, then again, willing the shaking to stop.
It does, mostly, enough that no one notices but me.
The surgical resident across from me adjusts his mask, his blue eyes focused on the instrument tray.
The scrub nurse hums under her breath, a tuneless melody that fills the silence as she arranges scalpels and retractors in precise rows.
I step up to the table, my eyes dropping to the patient, and the room tilts.
For a split second, the sterile green drapes blur into brick walls.
The stainless steel instruments gleam like headlights cutting through darkness, harsh and blinding.
The scent of antiseptic twists into the unmistakable iron-heavy scent of blood.
My stomach clenches, nausea rising fast and hot.
I blink hard, forcing the image from the alley away.
The green drapes come back into focus, crisp and clean, the patient's abdomen exposed and prepped, his skin stained amber with betadine. This isn’t an alley.
This is an operating room. This is controlled and safe.
The monitors beep in a reassuring melody, oxygen levels are stable, and heart rate is even.
The anesthesiologist sits behind the drapes, his attention on the screens, and fingers resting lightly on the controls.
“Rowan?”
I glance up to find the surgical resident watching me, his brows pulled together in a faint crease of concern. His mask pulls slightly as he tilts his head, waiting. I soften my expression automatically, letting my features fall into the calm I've worn like armor for years. “I'm good. Let's begin.”
The procedure goes smoothly, muscle memory carrying me through the close and suture before I step back and remove my gloves. When I look down, for just a heartbeat, my skin looks too dark beneath the harsh lights, stained and sticky.
I scrub harder than necessary. Hot water. Soap. Brush. Over and over until my knuckles sting and my palms feel raw. The bristles scrape against my nails, digging into the beds until they ache. I drag the brush across my wrists, up my forearms, the motion automatic and frantic.
“Rowan, you good?”
Lila's voice brings me back. I glance over to find her leaning against the doorframe, scrub cap pushed back, and a few dark curls escaping around her temples.
Her eyeliner is still perfect, a feat I'll never understand, and her burgundy scrubs fit her like they were tailored.
She studies me with a quiet intensity, her brown eyes narrowing just enough to tell me she's already figured out more than I want her to.
I shut off the water, shaking my hands once before reaching for a towel. “Yeah. Just a long morning.”
She doesn't believe me. I can tell by the way her mouth tightens at one corner, and she crosses her arms over her chest. But she doesn't push yet. “Lunch?”
“Maybe later.” I dry my hands, the rough paper towel scraping against my skin. “I've got a follow-up in twenty.”
She nods, pushing off the doorframe. “Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
The lie tastes bitter, but I let it sit on my tongue as I move past her into the hall. The corridor stretches long and bright, lined with exam rooms and supply closets. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings, the sound shrill and insistent before someone picks up.
By midday, exhaustion builds behind my eyes, a dull pressure that never quite goes away.
The fluorescent lights feel too bright, drilling into my skull with every blink.
Charts blur together. Names stack up in my head, patients blending into a single stream of injuries and histories.
Mrs. Chen with the hip fracture. Mr. Davis recovering from a hernia repair.
The teenager with the broken wrist from a skateboarding accident.
Every sharp sound makes my shoulders tense.
Every raised voice snaps my attention around faster than it should.
A nurse drops a metal tray in the supply room, the clatter echoing down the hall, and I jump before I can stop myself.
I tell myself it's just stress. Adrenaline that hasn't fully burned off yet. My body still processing what it experienced in the alley. Neurons firing in patterns they shouldn't, fear lodged somewhere deep where I can't reach it.
It happens.
I'm repeating that to myself when the ER doors burst open.
A gurney barrels in, flanked by paramedics shouting vitals over the din of alarms and voices.
Their uniforms are rumpled, stained with dirt and sweat.
One of them has blood smeared across his forearm, the red stark against his pale skin.
Blood streaks the sheets, dark and glossy under the lights, pooling in the creases where the fabric bunches.
The patient's head lolls to one side, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood.
His face is pale, lips parted, and chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps.
“Twenty-eight-year-old male,” one of the medics calls out, breathless. His voice cracks on the last word. “Multiple blunt force injuries, possible internal bleeding, hypotensive en route. Pressure's dropping. Eighty over fifty when we loaded him.”
I'm already moving. My legs carry me forward without conscious thought, my body responding to the urgency before my mind fully processes it.
The room narrows, everything else fading into background noise as I step up to the gurney.
Voices overlap, orders shouted from across the trauma bay.
Someone yells for O-negative. Another calls for the crash cart.
My hands find his wrist, my fingers pressing into skin that's already cooling, clammy, and damp. His pulse is thready and fast beneath my touch, telling me his body is fighting to compensate for the blood it no longer has.
His eyes flutter open at the contact. They're gray-blue, glassy but aware, fixing on my face with a startling intensity that punches straight through my chest. The pupils are dilated, blown wide with shock and pain, but there's recognition there.
Not of me, but of what I represent, safety and a lifeline to him.
His breathing comes in short, shallow pulls, each one rattling like it might be his last. A wheeze catches in his throat, wet and ominous.
“Sir,” I murmur, leaning closer so he can hear me over the noise. The monitors shriek behind me, alarms layering over each other in a discordant symphony. “I'm Dr. Hale. You're in the hospital. Can you tell me your name?”
His lips move, but nothing comes out at first. Blood flecks the corner of his mouth, bright and fresh. His fingers curl weakly around my wrist, his grip surprisingly firm for someone this close to the edge.
“Alexei,” he whispers at last, the Russian accent faint but unmistakable. The syllables roll off his tongue in a way that feels foreign and familiar all at once.
The name stirs an unease inside me I can’t quite place. It shouldn't mean anything to me. It doesn't. And yet my instincts flare, with the same awareness that washed over me in the alley. Bratva violence.
The thought flashes through me unbidden, and I shove it aside.
This is a patient, nothing more. I don't let myself think about what it means, and the way his injuries look too intentional.
The bruises along his ribs are dark and mottled, the imprint of knuckles still visible.
His knuckles are scraped raw, defensive wounds that tell a story I don't want to read.
“Okay, Alexei,” I respond gently, keeping my voice low and even. “Stay with me. We're going to take care of you.”
His grip tightens, his fingers biting into my skin hard enough to leave marks.
His eyes dart briefly around the room, panic flashing there, then snap back to my face.
He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, the cords in his neck standing out beneath the skin.
A faint tattoo peeks out from the torn collar of his shirt, the lines blurred and smudged with blood.
“They're…coming,” he breathes.