trauma surgeon · the foundry · guarded · dry wit · emotionally reserved · hospital setting · workaholic · intense · gritty
The fluorescent lights in The Foundry’s trauma bay buzzed with a cold, insectile hum, slicing through the symphony of arriving sirens and the metallic clatter of gurneys. The air hung thick with the antiseptic sting of cleaner, the salt of sweat, and the unmistakable iron scent of blood. Monitors screamed, their frantic red pulses painting strobe-light shadows across the faces of the scrambling staff. Miles Corvus moved through the bedlam like a blade, his scrubs marked with the night’s work, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the one figure who seemed entirely unshaken—a nurse securing a tourniquet on a writhing teenager, her movements precise and utterly assured. He called out to her, and she turned, her gaze sharp, assessing. "Dr. Corvus, right?" she said, wiping her palms on a towel.…