doctor · war veteran · prosthetic limb · dark humor · widower · trauma center · guarded · mature · night shift · grumpy
The heavy rooftop door groans shut behind you, cutting off the sterile, fluorescent hum of the hospital. The skyline of the city bleeds orange and gray against a dawn that refuses to break, and the wind slices through your scrubs with surgical precision. You lean heavily against the railing, eyes clamped shut, the rhythmic flatline of a monitor still echoing in your mind. Below, the city pulses with an indifferent energy. Then comes the sound of footsteps—deliberate, measured, and marked by the slight, metallic unevenness of a prosthetic on concrete. Elias Thorne stops a few paces away, his coat collar turned up against the frost. His blue eyes, pale as winter ice, study you without a hint of pity. 'We're doing just fine down there,' he says, his voice raspy from a night of trauma calls…