The hospital hummed beneath the fluorescent lights, its corridors lined with moving bodies and muffled urgency. Nia Seraphine Adisa paused in the elevator, staring at the surgical board. Names shuffled in real-time — traumas, codes, and consults — a map of chaos only she could see as a pattern.
Her fingers twitched slightly. It had been two days since Isaac's spinal tumor surgery — a masterwork orchestrated by Dr. Shepherd, but Nia had watched it unfold like a symphony. Every incision, every pause, every heartbeat. Her photographic memory wasn't just recall. It was immersion.
"Adisa!" Bailey's voice snapped through the corridor like a whip. "You're rounding with me today. And wipe that philosophical look off your face. We've got a seven-year-old post-op with a cardiac arrhythmia and a family that don't trust hospitals."
"Yes, Dr. Bailey."
Behind her, Micah caught her eye as he rounded the corner from the ER — blood smeared on his scrub top, adrenaline still pumping in his gait. Their eyes locked for half a second. Silent. Steady.
And then they moved on.
---
Pediatrics, Room 312
The little girl's name was Daniella, and she was pale against the hospital bedding, her chest rising in soft, fragile waves. Her mother hovered like a storm, pacing at the foot of the bed, while Arizona Robbins explained the arrhythmia with careful optimism.
"She just came out of a major cardiac procedure," Arizona said, gentle but firm. "It's not uncommon. We're monitoring everything, and if there's even a whisper of instability, she'll be in the OR before you blink."
Bailey stepped in. "This is Intern Adisa. She's joining your daughter's care team today."
Nia offered a smile, but her attention was on the monitor. A slight inconsistency in the waveform. Subtle. Most wouldn't notice.
"She's about five seconds from dropping below safe threshold," Nia said quietly.
Arizona and Bailey turned sharply toward her — and the monitor beeped. Alarms. Daniella's heart rate plunged, and chaos snapped into motion.
Arizona was at the head of the bed instantly, barking orders.
"Page cardio! Push 0.5 mg epi. Nia — call it if she slips into V-tach!"
But Nia was already moving. In her mind, she saw the heart — the electrical flicker inside Daniella's chest — short-circuiting. She remembered a rare pediatric case study she'd read five years ago. A rare post-op conduction block only found in kids with Daniella's anatomy. She leaned over and whispered to Arizona:
"It's not standard arrhythmia. Look at the bundle branches."
Arizona's brows lifted, but she checked. And Nia was right.
Arizona didn't ask how she knew. She just acted.
---
Later that morning…
"You were right," Arizona said. "And fast. What, exactly, is your deal?"
Nia hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "I have… a good memory."
Arizona smiled. "Photographic, I'm guessing. Whatever it is, it just saved that kid's life."
Bailey, arms folded across her chest, was watching. "She's got instincts. But instincts aren't enough if you can't back them up."
"I'm backing them up," Nia said quietly. "One patient at a time."
---
Elsewhere in the hospital…
Micah was deep in the ER trenches. An elderly woman had coded twice in transit after a head-on collision. No one thought she'd make it. Micah's voice carried through the trauma bay like a lifeline, commanding and calm.
"Ten blade. Sternal crack. Let's go — she's got a pulse in there, I swear it."
He cracked the chest with steady hands, blood surging as suction roared. For three minutes, it was a battle of nerves. Then — a pulse.
A soft cheer rippled through the room. Micah let out a long breath, sweat slicking his temple.
"You're a damn miracle worker," a nurse whispered.
But Micah just shook his head. "Nah. Just had something to prove."
---
Lunchtime, Residents' Lounge
Nia and Micah sat shoulder to shoulder, silent for a long moment. The air buzzed with tension they couldn't shake.
"You cracked a chest," she said finally, glancing at him.
"You pulled a kid out of V-tach," he shot back.
They looked at each other, pride and worry mixing in the spaces between.
"We're good," he said.
"We're tired," she replied.
A beat. Then she whispered, "I can't stop seeing the insides of people. Even when I sleep."
He reached out, brushing his fingers over hers. "Let's find a way to keep you human through this. You're not a machine, Nia."
Her throat tightened, but she nodded.
---
Surgical Floor – Afternoon
Cristina Yang cornered Nia after a cardio consult.
"You saw the conduction block in a seven-year-old. That's next-level. Shepherd wasn't exaggerating about you."
Nia shrugged. "I read. I remember."
Cristina stepped closer. "What you do — that's not just memory. It's synthesis. Pattern recognition at the speed of light. You should be fighting for cardio. Or neuro. Or both."
"I'm still an intern."
Cristina smirked. "So? The battlefield doesn't care what year you are. You're either a soldier or a statistic."
As she walked away, Nia felt the weight of the compliment settle deep in her chest.
---
Evening — Patient Check-In
Nia checked in on Daniella and found her awake, sitting up, and smiling softly as her mother fed her applesauce.
"You're my heart doctor," the little girl said.
Nia smiled. "Just one of many."
"No," the girl said seriously. "You were the one who looked scared and brave at the same time. That's how I knew I was gonna be okay."
Nia swallowed a lump in her throat.
"Thank you, Daniella."
---
Hospital Rooftop — Nightfall
The sun had dipped below the horizon when Nia found herself on the rooftop again. Micah joined her minutes later, two coffees in hand.
"I had a moment today," he said. "After the trauma. I realized I'd rather fail being all in, than succeed by being small."
Nia looked at him, eyes soft.
"I don't think we're meant to be small."
"No," he agreed. "And I don't want to love you in a small way either."
Nia blinked. "You love me?"
Micah didn't look away. "Yeah. I do."
She stepped closer. "Then love me out loud."
Their kiss was slow, a promise unfolding under the stars.
---
End of Chapter 13