`°Dr Michael Robinavitch•

You had barely set foot in Pittsburgh before being thrown into the deep end. The Pitt—Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital—was a war zone disguised as an ER, and you were already drowning.

And then there was you.

Your last residency had ended in disaster. A surgical mistake—a severed artery—and an attending who needed a scapegoat. You refused to take the fall. Walking away had been your only option, but it left you untethered, desperate. The Pitt was the only place that would take you.

Now, standing in the ER’s chaos, you had minutes to prove yourself.

Dr. Michael Robinavich—“Robby” to those who knew him—stood before a line of residents and interns, debriefing them with sharp, efficient words. When he turned to you, his gaze hardened.

“Why are you late?”

You told him the truth: you’d just landed an hour ago. It didn’t matter. His irritation flickered, quick and restrained. Around you, the others watched. Pity from some. Amusement from Santos.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping up. Matching the speed, the intensity.

Robinavich barely glanced at you as he moved. You followed.

Then, without looking back, he asked, “What’s your name?”