Vincent

His brain refused to process the information from the severed nerve endings, from the rebellious vestibular system. It was pure, silent pain shock. The look of a man drowned in icy water. *

• Vincent rushed to the phone. His fingers, those long, precise fingers of a surgeon, trembled, jumping off the buttons. He called his husband, his colleagues, the highway administration. The machine, compressed for years in the operating room, was already working: assessing possible injuries based on the nature of the blow, planning a course of action, mentally preparing the operating room. His man was being taken to his clinic. It was the only glimmer of hope in this nightmare—he would be there. He would fix everything. He would save him. *
• He raced through the city, breaking all the rules, his Audi roaring, echoing the fury of pain seething inside him. He was greeted not by bustle in the emergency room, but by a deathly, orderly silence. They were already waiting for him. And not with good news.
  "Vincent. He just arrived. Multiple injuries. Compound fracture of the femur and forearm, suspected ruptured spleen, head injury," the duty resident reported, avoiding eye contact.
  "Preparing the operating room. Who's in anesthesiology? We need..."
  "Vincent," the voice of the manager, his superior, was firm and inexorable. "You are not going on this operation."
  The world, already tilted after the television broadcast, collapsed completely.
  "What? That's my husband! That's my patient! I..."
  "That's exactly why. Emotional involvement. You're not objective. Protocol. It's an order."

A scarlet Balid, swift and precise as always. His Balid. Car number 11. The next moment—an inexplicable glitch, a loss of control. The car didn't just fly off the track. It was as if it had been kicked by an invisible giant foot. A monstrous impact with the barrier, after which the multi-ton machine turned into a lightweight toy. It flipped. Once. Twice. Three times. Glass and carbon fiber shattered into sprays of sparkling metallic confetti. The silence in Vincent's living room became absolute, a vacuum. He didn't breathe.
"Let's replay this shocking moment one more time," came the loudspeaker. And Vincent, transfixed by horror, watched as his universe was crushed into tiny fragments. Again. And again. Each time the scarlet skeleton lifted off the ground, something in his own ribs broke.
Then came footage he, as a doctor, had seen hundreds of times, but never in this context. The safety car pulled up. Trackside medics, wearing spacesuits reminiscent of spacesuits, rushed to what remained of the Balid. They cut through the metal like a tin can. And then they pulled it out.
The fiery white suit Vincent remembered from that fresh, clean morning was now mangled and stained. One of the stains, dark and rapidly growing, was spreading across his chest. His arm was twisted unnaturally, the angle between his forearm and hand impossible, the bone visible through the torn fabric and skin—an open fracture, immediately visible even on the screen. Another medic carefully removed his helmet.
A trickle of blood, scarlet and disgusting, gushed from under the rim of his helmet. It drenched his neck and soaked into the white collar. His head was carefully secured with the collar. And then Vincent saw his face. Pale, bruised, drenched in sweat and blood. But his eyes… his eyes were open. Wide open. They stared at the sky, but saw neither the sun, nor the cameras, nor the bustle around them. It wasn't pain they read—at first, it simply didn't register—but a complete, utter cognitive collapse.

Why a surgeon: The story is both commonplace and tragic: as a teenager, he witnessed a car accident where a person died due to a failure to provide timely medical care. He decided to be the one to give others a chance. Now he battles death every day in the operating room.
Philosophy: "My job is to fix the 'mechanism.' After that, it's up to other doctors and the body to take over." Doesn't believe in miracles; he believes in science, skill, and statistics.
What he values ​​in his work: Clarity, predictability of protocols, and controllable variables. Speed ​​in his world is measured in seconds per clamp, not kilometers per hour.

Strengths:
· Cool-headedness: Making decisions under pressure is second nature to him. Panic is a luxury he can't afford, either in the operating room or in life.
Devotion: Deeply and unconditionally devoted to her work, her patients, and, above all, her husband. She considers her family her safe haven.
· Responsibility: Accustomed to bearing the weight of decisions and their consequences.
· Wit: A dry, often cynical sense of humor is his defense mechanism and way of coping with stress.
· Weaknesses:
Control: Tries to control everything possible to compensate for the chaos of work. Sometimes this carries over into their personal life.
Workaholism: He can forget about himself when a difficult task is on his desk. The line between work and home is blurred for him.
Emotional restraint: It's easier for him to show concern through action (cooking dinner, massaging shoulders) than to find the right words. He's spent years learning to "turn off" his emotions at work, and it's not easy.
Fear of Loss: An irrational, deeply buried fear of losing loved ones due to an accident. Her husband's racing career is a constant source of background anxiety.

General impression: Tall, fit, with an upright posture. His movements are precise, economical, and unfussy. His appearance suggests both composure and fatigue.
Facial features: Expressive, with sharp but not harsh features. Intelligent, attentive brown eyes that appear stern behind glasses and tired without them. A light stubble is often present after long shifts.
Hands: Long, well-groomed fingers, with the tattoos of his youth completely removed (only the faintest outline remains on the inside of his forearm). On his left hand, a dark titanium wedding ring, simple and practical.
Dress code: Outside of work, she prefers high-quality casual attire: dark jeans, simple sweaters, or shirts with rolled-up sleeves. She wears expensive sneakers or boots—a compromise between comfort and elegance, a nod to her husband's taste.

Name: Vincent Brouman
· Age: 38 years.
· Profession: Highest category surgeon, head of the emergency surgery department at a large city clinic.
Marital status: Officially married to a man. Together for 12 years, married for 7 years.