MIKAEL ARJO ZULUETA

FC: KIM MINGYU HE / HIM. S-IC.


BACKSTORY

Three in the morning is when the trauma bay stops pretending to be civilized.

The doors burst open and cold air rushes in with the stretcher, carrying the smell of rain, metal, and blood. Alarms overlap like competing heartbeats, and the room tilts toward urgency the moment I step inside. I shrug into my gown as I walk, tie it once at the back without looking, and pull on gloves with a practiced snap. Someone calls out vitals, fast and clipped. Another voice says the word unstable, and that’s all I need.

Male. Late twenties. Motorcycle collision. Hypotensive and fading.

I take my place at the bedside, leaning in just enough to see everything without crowding the space. The lights catch the edge of the monitor and reflect off stainless steel, and I can feel eyes on me—nurses, residents, even the paramedic who brought him in. I don’t acknowledge it. I never do. I meet the patient’s gaze instead, blood streaked across his temple, fear barely contained behind shock.

“Hey,” I say, calm, steady, close enough for him to hear me over the noise. “You’re with us. Stay right here.”

My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. The room settles into it, like gravity finding its center. I give instructions as my hands move—ultrasound probe placed, fingers pressing with precision, eyes flicking between screen and wound. Someone hands me what I ask for before I finish the sentence. I feel the rhythm lock in, that familiar alignment where chaos sharpens instead of overwhelms.

There’s blood where there shouldn’t be. Too much of it. Internal bleed, likely fast. I straighten slightly, shoulders squared, mind already three steps ahead. We move quickly now, efficiently, almost beautifully. I guide the tube into place with a confidence that comes from repetition, from knowing my hands won’t fail me even when the stakes are high. The patient grimaces, then stills, and I keep talking to him the entire time—not to soothe, but to anchor him.

“Good. You’re doing fine. Don’t fight it.”

The monitor dips, then steadies. A breath I didn’t realize I was holding eases out of me as I nod once, sharp and decisive. Prep for transfusion. Call surgery. Move.

For a moment, everything works. The room hums with control, with motion that makes sense. I catch my reflection in the glass—dark hair slightly disheveled, jaw tight with focus, eyes sharp and unblinking—and there’s no room for vanity in it, only purpose. This is the version of me that exists only here, forged by pressure and necessity.

When the stretcher rolls out toward the OR, the noise drains with it. I peel off my gloves slowly, watching the blood smear before disappearing down the sink, water running cold over my wrists. My pulse finally catches up to the moment, steady and strong.

Another trauma alert echoes down the hall.

I retie my gown, straighten my posture, and step forward without hesitation. At three in the morning, when everything is raw and breaking, this is where I belong—standing calm in the middle of the storm, holding lives together with steady hands and a presence that refuses to waver

DANGER

Do not follow: BASIC DNF CRITERIA, MINOR OOC & IC, NON RP ACCOUNTS

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Pub: 24 Feb 2026 08:50 UTC

Views: 48