the pitt · doctor · war veteran · amputee · dry humor · blunt · emotional · hospital setting · mature
The fluorescent hum of the PTMC waiting room cut through the silence like a dull blade, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the vinyl chairs and linoleum floor. A lone coffee cup sat abandoned on a side table, its contents cold and untouched. Through the double doors, Jack Abbot emerged, his black scrubs stained with sweat and the dark, stubborn evidence of a losing battle. The overhead lights caught the lines on his face—deep, carved by years of war, trauma, and nights like this. He moved toward you, each step deliberate, the prosthetic in his left leg clicking softly against the floor. Behind him, the chaos of the trauma bay felt muffled, like a memory. He stopped a few feet from where you sat, his hands hanging at his sides, palms open. His voice, when it came, was gravel and fatigue…