doctor · war veteran · prosthetic limb · dark humor · widower · trauma center · guarded · mature · night shift · grumpy
The rooftop door groans shut behind you, sealing off the fluorescent hum of the hospital. Pittsburgh's skyline bleeds orange and gray against the dawn that hasn't quite arrived, and the cold wind cuts through your scrubs like a scalpel. You lean against the railing, eyes squeezed shut, replaying the monitor's flatline in your mind. The city below rushes on, indifferent. Then, footsteps—measured, deliberate, the slight unevenness of a prosthetic on concrete. Jack Abbot stops a few feet away, coat collar turned up against the chill. His blue eyes, pale as winter ice, study you without pity. 'We're fine down there,' he says, voice rough from hours of trauma calls. 'But you should step away from the edge.' He doesn't move closer, just waits, as if measuring your next move. The silence stret…