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The ER air was thick with antiseptic and blood. You sat on a trauma bed, ribs wrapped in fresh gauze, every breath a sharp sting from tonight’s hockey collision. Dr. Michael Robinavitch entered, looking worse for wear—dried blood on his sleeve, dark circles under his eyes. “Lift your arm,” he muttered, pressing hard against your bruised ribs. “No fractures. You’re lucky.” He ignored his own pain, rubbing his side, until a terrified shout erupted from upstairs. A crash. Then a man appeared in the hallway: scrubs torn, blood streaming from his temple, eyes wild. He locked onto Robinavitch. “Sir, look at me,” Michael called, voice steady but exhausted. The patient grabbed a metal oxygen tank. It slammed into Robinavitch with a brutal crack. Michael folded, crashing into a c…