"Today's emergency simulation drill is mandatory. All staff, no exceptions."
Those words echoed in my head as I stood frozen in the training wing, staring at the plastic dummy on the bed like it might bite me.
Worse?
I was paired with him.
Dr. Hayashi stood beside me, arms crossed, expression unreadable — though if I had to guess, he looked like someone who'd been forced to team up with a wet paper towel.
"Try not to kill the dummy," he muttered.
I stiffened. "I passed my CPR exam."
"Barely."
I ignored the sting in my pride. This was my chance to prove myself.
---
The buzzer went off. The timer started. The instructor called:
"Simulated cardiac arrest. GO!"
I leapt into action — okay, maybe "leapt" was generous.
I rushed to the dummy, checked for breath, started compressions—only I overshot and slammed my elbow into Dr. Hayashi's ribs as he leaned in to adjust the monitor.
He let out a choked grunt.
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!"
"Did you just try to resuscitate me?"
"I—I panicked!"
"Clearly."
I went red as the other teams worked calmly around us, perfectly coordinated. I fumbled with the defibrillator leads, dropped the ambu bag, and nearly choked when I tried to give mouth-to-mask breaths upside down.
It was a disaster.
The dummy "flatlined."
So did my confidence.
---
After the drill, I slipped away into the stairwell and sank onto the cold steps.
I felt like crying.
No — I was crying. Just a little. Quiet, frustrated tears.
It wasn't just the drill. It was everything. Trying to fit in. Trying not to screw up.
Trying not to let him think I was hopeless.
The door creaked open. I quickly wiped my cheeks.
Of course, it was him.
Dr. Hayashi stepped in, arms still crossed, brow slightly furrowed.
"You're hiding in the stairwell now?" he said.
"Don't start."
He leaned against the wall. "You elbowed a cardiologist in the ribs. That's a new level of irony."
I looked away. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this…"
There was a pause. Then, unexpectedly:
"You're clumsy."
"…Thanks."
"But," he added, "you're not heartless."
I blinked. "Wait. Was that a compliment?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he said, "I've seen dozens of rookies. Some memorize manuals. Some memorize people."
I looked up.
"You're the latter. It's messier. But more useful."
Silence settled between us. Then:
"You know, if you wanted to assault me, the defibrillator would've been faster."
I burst out laughing, to my own surprise. It echoed in the stairwell, awkward and bright.
"You're impossible," I said, smiling through the last of the tears.
He pushed off the wall.
"Get your head straight, newbie. Next time, the dummy might be real."
And with that, he walked away.
But for the first time, his words didn't feel like knives.
They felt like… a warning.
Or maybe a promise.