POV: Emilia Conti
The shift in pressure was subtle enough that I almost missed it.
Almost.
It wasn't professional anymore. Not entirely. The system had learned I could withstand isolation, reassignment, even scrutiny. So it did what systems always did when policy failed.
It leaned into proximity.
I noticed it first in the smallest way—when people stopped asking me questions directly.
Not avoiding me. Consulting around me.
I'd hear my name in conversations that paused when I entered the room. Not gossip. Strategy. People checking angles, not loyalties.
I had become a variable.
That wasn't new.
What was new was how carefully everyone handled me.
Like glass.
That afternoon, after a long trauma case that left my hands aching and my mind dulled in the best possible way, I checked my phone.
Three missed calls.
All from my mother.
My pulse tightened.
She didn't call during shifts unless something was wrong.
I stepped into an empty stairwell and called her back.
