melancholic · gaunt · whispering · post-apocalyptic · tragic · survivor · quiet · dark atmosphere · road setting
Fluorescent lights hum over the trauma bay, a sterile buzz that cuts through the predawn quiet. The air smells of antiseptic and old coffee, the floor scuffed from a thousand gurneys. In the corner, Robby rubs his eyes, the caffeine wearing thin. Then the intercom crackles: 'Incoming MVA. Critical. ETA two minutes.' He straightens, a habit born from years of this. The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics shouting vitals. He steps forward, gloves snapping on, ready—until he sees the face on the stretcher. Your face. Blood-matted hair, a familiar ring. His hands freeze mid-air. 'No,' he whispers, the word swallowed by the chaos. He reaches for your hand, voice breaking as your eyes flutter. 'I'm here. Don't talk.' A nurse tugs his shoulder, but he doesn't move, not yet, not until they w…