- Sloane Pierce:
The door of the operating room swung shut behind me with a soft hydraulic sigh, and for a brief moment I allowed my shoulders to fall.
Hours inside, every second calculated, every movement precise—yet the minute I stepped into the corridor, chaos reclaimed me.
Voices, stretchers rattling past, shoes squeaking against linoleum, the intercom barking overhead.
There was no reprieve, not even to breathe. Not here. Not tonight.
I stripped off my gloves and mask, handed them to the scrub nurse, and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes. My body wanted rest, but my mind was already cataloguing the next task.
There were still patients bleeding, waiting, clinging to fragile threads of life that demanded I move forward.
"Doctor Pierce," a nurse called softly, jogging up beside me. "We've got another one—stable, but in pain. He's in Bay 6. They say he caused the pileup."
I nodded once. "I'll see him now."
Bay 6 was curtained off, the low hum of a monitor leaking through the thin fabric. When I pushed the curtain aside, I was greeted by the sight of a man sitting upright on the bed, legs swinging like he was impatient to leave.
His hair was matted with sweat, his clothes torn at the knees, and his expression somewhere between annoyance and boredom.
A single gash traced down his cheek, and his left wrist looked swollen, but compared to what I had just seen in the OR, he was nearly pristine.
I picked up his chart. "You're… Mr. Harlan?"
"Yeah." His tone was clipped, almost defensive.
"You were at the scene of the accident."
He shifted, eyes darting away. "Wasn't my fault. Truck came outta nowhere. Everyone drives like an idiot on that road."
The words landed sourly. I had already heard the nurses whispering about him—that he had stopped abruptly, forced a chain reaction of braking and swerving that sent vehicles colliding like dominos.
Lives torn open in seconds. And here he sat with a swollen wrist and a scratch.
Life isn't fair. The thought pressed itself heavily against my chest, familiar but still sharp. The ones who caused the storm often walked away with nothing but drizzle.
I kept my voice neutral. "Let's take a look at that wrist."
I examined him with meticulous care, palpating bones, noting his winces. A minor fracture. We splinted it quickly. His cheek wound was superficial; I cleaned it, stitched the skin closed with practiced motions.
He barely flinched, as though the inconvenience annoyed him more than the injury itself.
When I was done, I stepped back, stripped my gloves. "You'll live. Keep the splint dry, follow up in a week."
He smirked. "Guess I got lucky, huh?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't trust myself not to say something that would fracture the sterile professionalism I worked so hard to maintain. Instead, I left without a word, my chest tight with unspent frustration.
-
Hours blurred after that—wounds irrigated, bones set, blood transfusions authorized, families consoled in clipped, efficient tones. I moved through the ER like a gear in a machine, precise and cold, because anything else would slow me down. Compassion could wait. Lives could not.
But then I heard it: raised voices echoing down the main corridor. Male voices, sharp and furious, cutting through the hospital din like blades.
My jaw tightened. If there was one thing I could not abide, it was shouting in these halls. Patients needed calm. Rest. The illusion of safety, at least. Not intimidation.
I followed the sound and turned a corner to find a cluster of men gathered near the admissions desk.
They were large, imposing figures—tattooed arms crossed over leather jackets, helmets dangling from gloved hands. Hair dyed in streaks of harsh color.
A patchwork of symbols sewn across their backs, identical logos marking them as part of something bigger.
A club of some sort.
The nurse behind the desk looked pale, her hands fluttering nervously as she stammered excuses. "I don't know, I'm not sure… we have to check with the doctors—"
One man slammed his fist on the counter. "Don't play dumb! She's here. Roxy. Where the hell is she?"
The nurse shrank back, eyes wide. She was seconds away from tears.
Enough.
I pushed my glasses higher on my nose, squared my shoulders, and stepped forward. My voice was calm, measured, and utterly devoid of warmth. "That's enough."
The men turned, their anger narrowing on me like searchlights. The nurse shot me a desperate glance, but I waved her off. "You're free to go," I told her, and she slipped away, relief written in every step.
Now it was just me and them.
One of the men sneered. "Who the hell are you?"
"Dr. Sloane Pierce. Neurosurgeon here." My tone carried the weight of finality, a wall they could crash against without ever moving. "And I don't tolerate shouting in this hospital. People are dying. If you want answers, you'll speak to me. Quietly."
The sneer faltered. But another man stepped closer, taller than me by at least a four inches (10centimeters), his chest broad enough to blot out the lights overhead. His eyes burned with desperation under the anger. "That's my fucking sister. Roxy. She got into the accident. I need to see her. Now."
I kept my gaze locked on his, steady, unflinching. "Is she a motorcyclist?"
"Yes," he snapped. Around him, the others echoed the answer, voices overlapping, urgent. "Yes. She was riding. Do you know where she is?"
I allowed the pause to stretch a beat too long, testing their resolve. Then: "Yes. I do. I was one of the surgeons responsible for her case."
Their postures shifted as one. The room seemed to exhale. The leader's fists unclenched, his eyes searching mine with something raw, stripped of bravado. Fear.
"We need to see her," he said, quieter now, almost pleading.
I shook my head. "She's not permitted visitors today. She's stable, but fragile. Disturbing her recovery could jeopardize her progress."
He stepped closer again, but this time it wasn't anger driving him forward—it was the collapse of all his defenses. His voice cracked, just slightly. "Is she… is she okay? Please."
That single word—please—landed heavier than any fist. For the first time tonight, something in me bent. Just a fraction.
"She's alive," I said softly, but firmly. "Her vitals are strong. The surgery went well. But she has a long road ahead. Her leg and spine were badly damaged. Even with healing, walking will take time. But with the help of a physically therapist she will walk."
His jaw trembled, and he turned his head, blinking hard. The others shuffled, murmured, glanced at one another with the helplessness of men who could mend engines and fight battles but could not stitch bone or steady a faltering heart.
"Come with me," I said at last.
I led them down the hall, the sound of their heavy boots echoing behind me like thunder. At the recovery ward, I stopped outside a glass-panelled room.
Inside, the woman whom they called Roxy, lay motionless, pale beneath a tangle of tubes and monitors. Machines hummed steadily, charting each fragile beat of her body.
The men crowded close to the glass, breath fogging it, their tough exteriors crumbling as they drank in the sight. Gasps, curses under their breath, whispered fragments of prayers.
"She looks…" one muttered, unable to finish.
I folded my arms. "She's stable. That's what matters. But she needs rest. No visitors tonight. Tomorrow, if her vitals hold steady, I'll allow one of you inside."
They turned to me, eyes searching, desperate for reassurance. I gave them only the truth. "She's going to struggle to walk normally again. But she's alive. Hold on to that."
The one that seemed to be their leader nodded, jaw tight. "Thank you."
I inclined my head once, already turning away. Gratitude was a luxury I didn't have the bandwidth to receive.
The cafeteria was nearly empty when I arrived. The fluorescent lights buzzed, the scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. I poured myself a cup, hands trembling faintly from fatigue, and lowered onto a hard plastic chair.
For a brief, fragile moment, I allowed myself to sit still, to sip bitterness and feel it steady me.
The image of the bikers lingered. The way their anger had cracked open to reveal fear, love, desperation.
The way they had pressed to the glass as if sheer willpower could stitch Roxy whole again. For them, she wasn't just part of their family. She was everything to them.
I rubbed at my temple and forced the thought away. I didn't have room for sentiment. Five minutes of stillness, then I would rise. More patients needed me.
I drained the last of the coffee, tossed the cup, and stood. My feet were already carrying me back toward the ward, toward the next crisis, before the warmth had even left my hands.