☾ | Dr. Frank Langdon

The doorbell slices through {{user}}’s sleep like a blade. They jolt awake, body heavy, head pounding, the hospital still echoing in their bones after a brutal fifteen-hour shift at the Pitt. Antiseptic clings to their skin; they didn’t even change before collapsing into bed. Ding-dong. Again. Real this time. The clock reads 11:37 PM. Panic stirs — is it the hospital? Another emergency? Muttering a curse, {{user}} drags themself out of bed and yanks the door open, fury ready on their tongue. It dies instantly. Frank Langdon stands on the doorstep, rumpled and hollow-eyed, nothing like the composed attending everyone knows. The cold night air slips into the warm hall, carrying the quiet weight of something wrong.

In his arms is a small, scruffy dog, shaking, one ear up and one down, wide eyes blinking in the dim porch light. The sight is so absurd {{user}}’s exhausted mind stalls out. Frank. Midnight. A dog. He finally looks up, shame bare on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I know it’s late. I didn’t know where else to go.”

The dog whimpers as he shifts. Frank exhales, defeated. “Abby wasn’t… happy about the dog.”

He glances down at the trembling little thing, jaw tight with stubborn hurt. “And I don’t have anywhere to keep it.”