Forbidden Diagnosis, Some Wounds Medicine Can't Heal

Anya

The alarm blared at 4 a.m., jerking Zara and me awake. I wanted to throw it out of the window, and Zara groaned into her pillow, falling back on it.

We shot out of bed, half-asleep, bumping into each other and sprinting around like there's a zombie apocalypse outside the door.

Neither of us spoke until the smell of coffee filled the room. We both knew that if caffeine didn't enter our system in the next five minutes, someone was going to die, and it wouldn't be from natural causes.

By 4:55 a.m. we're at the hospital, running purely on coffee and the protein bars Zara brought.

God bless her; I get impossibly grumpy on an empty stomach.

When we reach the ward, a tall guy, maybe five-ten, light skin, blond hair, hazel eyes, glasses, waits for us. Good-looking in a Clark Kent–if-he-were-two-inches-shorter kind of way. He introduces himself as Dr. Luke Wilson, one of the fourth-year residents.

Unlike Dr. Montgomery, he's easygoing, cracks jokes before we've even had our ID badges scanned, and walks us through what we'll be doing all day.

"Welcome to your first day, rookies," he said, smiling a little too brightly for someone who'd clearly been awake longer than us. "You've got twenty patients, two brains, and no clue what's coming. Let's fix that."

Labs.

Charts.

Vitals.

Presentations.

"And your supervising attending," he continued, "is Dr. Ethan Calloway. Brilliant. Zero tolerance for bullshit. Doesn't do small talk. Don't be late, don't be sloppy, and if you survive your first month, you might even start to like him."

I nodded again, pretending to be calm, but internally, I was panicking. And just when I thought I couldn't feel more pressure, he added, "Your evaluations go to Dr. Calloway weekly and to Dr. Ashbourne every two weeks."

That was it. My brain short-circuited.

The second I heard that name, I slammed every mental door I had, locked them, and threw the keys into the nearest sea. Nope. Not today.

Sexy Sin in Scrubs was not allowed to exist inside my thoughts during working hours. I had a professional reputation to build or at least the illusion of one.

"Perform well," he says, "and you'll live to tell the tale."

Zara, who is braver than me, asks when we'll get to assist in the OR.

Dr. Wilson laughs. "Not the first month. Maybe by the third rotation, second if you're prodigies."

We groan but nod. Start at zero, climb up. Fair enough.

The first hour passed in a blur. Zara and I trailed after Dr. Wilson as he moved from room to room, introducing us to patients, explaining what to watch for, and throwing little tests our way. I liked him; he was kind in that quietly confident way some senior doctors are, the ones who correct your mistakes without crushing your soul.

By 7 a.m. the ward had transformed from calm to chaos. White coats, scrubs, coffee cups, pagers, people rushing in every direction. Elevator doors kept spilling out doctors like a clown car. And then someone new steps out.

Tall. Dark hair. Commanding energy.

No butterflies, no short circuiting of my nervous system, so definitely not him.

Still, there's something magnetic about this man. I had a feeling that I wanted to impress him.

Without anyone telling me, I knew it was Dr. Ethan Calloway.

He's talking to another fellow, the team forming behind them, third and fourth year residents, a couple of second years, all efficient, all intimidatingly calm. Rounds begin.

He starts in Room 1, asking rapid fire questions. By Room 3 his gaze lands on me.

"So, Dr. Briar," he said, voice low, steady, professional, "what's your differential?"

My heart did that stupid double jump again. My brain froze for half a second, then sputtered back to life.

"Glioma," I said quickly, and then, more confidently, "Possible meningioma, based on MRI frontal lobe involvement that would explain the patient's motor deficit and recent mood swings."

A small nod. Approval. Then he said,

"Good. Always match the scan with symptoms."

Then he turns to Zara. "How would you prep the patient for surgery?"

She nails it. He gives us both a quick, almost imperceptible smile before moving on.

For the rest of the rounds he didn't question me again, but I caught his eyes flick toward me once or twice, not unfriendly. I could've sworn there was the faintest spark of curiosity there. I pretended to ignore it and discreetly wiped my face in case I had coffee foam somewhere.

By the time I remembered to breathe, rounds are over. My pulse is still racing, but for once it's from adrenaline, not embarrassment.

The next few hours passed in fragments, vitals, chart updates, patients, more charts, quick sips of cold coffee, and the faint buzz of hospital life all around us. Dr. Wilson kept us moving with sarcastic one-liners.

"Smile, it confuses the consultants."

"Write legibly, it's your one shot at redemption."

By noon, my body had decided it no longer wanted to be a body. I was running purely on caffeine and fear. Then came a trauma page. The sound made the hallway still for half a breath before the staff sprinted toward the bay. Dr. Wilson told us to stay back, it wasn't our level yet, but curiosity got the better of us. Zara and I crept toward the glass doors and peeked through.

Inside the trauma bay, chaos ruled, monitors beeping, nurses shouting vitals, instruments clattering. And right in the middle of it, Dr. Calloway.

Steady hands. Calm voice. Everyone moving to his rhythm like he was conducting a symphony made of blood and panic.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

That was what mastery looked like. Not arrogance. Not ego. Just control.

The hours blurred again. I blinked, and somehow it was midnight. My feet ached, my shoulders felt like I'd been carrying bricks, and my stomach was making sounds I didn't know were humanly possible. Zara had passed out on a pile of charts. I was still updating vitals when a voice behind me said,

"Still standing?"

I turned to find Dr. Calloway leaning against the doorframe, amusement in his eyes.

"Barely," I said, smiling despite my exhaustion. "Coffee and fear. It's a balanced diet."

He chuckled, low, genuine. "You'll fit right in."

And just like that, he was gone.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty doorway like an idiot, replaying the sound of his laugh in my head. It wasn't like Felix's polished charm or the way he always seemed to know the effect he had on people. This was different. Simple. Human.

By 2 a.m., Zara and I were finally in the residents' lounge, the hum of vending machines filling the silence. She mumbled something about quitting medicine and immediately fell asleep on the couch. I sat there staring at my stained scrubs, aching feet, and messy handwriting on the chart in my lap. My eyes burned, my body screamed, and my brain buzzed with everything I had learned in the last twenty hours.

And yet... I felt something else too. Pride.

This was my first day, my first thirty-six-hour shift, my first tiny victory in a mountain of challenges waiting ahead. I survived it. I didn't faint, I didn't cry in the bathroom, and I didn't get fired.

I was exhausted, starving, and delirious, but I was alive.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.