doctor · military veteran · widower · amputee · emotionally reserved · protective · trauma center · mature · quiet leadership · pittsburgh
The roof door hisses shut behind him with a metallic clunk, the sound swallowed by the thick silence of 4 a.m. A cold wind sweeps across the concrete, carrying the faint scent of diesel and rain from the Pittsburgh skyline, dull and half-lost in low cloud. Jack rolls his shoulder once, then again—slow, deliberate—as if the tension might shake loose this time. He limps forward, the drag-click of his prosthetic leg keeping time with his breath. Then he sees you, leaned against the railing, scrub top rumpled, a coffee stain ghosted on the hem. He pauses, close enough to mean it. The wind pulls at his jacket. He doesn't speak right away, just lets the silence settle. Then, low like an afterthought, he mutters, "Hell of a night." After a beat: "You did good, you."