The emergency department at Bellevue Hospital thrummed with controlled chaos at 7:14 a.m.—the exact hour when the night shift handed over its ghosts to the day crew. Gurneys rattled down fluorescent-lit corridors, monitors beeped in discordant rhythm, and the air carried the sharp cocktail of antiseptic, blood, and burnt coffee.
Dr. Rowan Blackwood strode through the double doors from the staff locker room like she owned the place. Because in every practical way, she did.
She was twenty-four, already senior attending in emergency medicine and addiction consults, a title most people twice her age still chased.
Five-foot-seven in sensible black clogs, she moved with the kind of purposeful economy that made lesser doctors step aside without thinking. Her white coat hung open over navy scrubs that clung just enough to trace the generous hourglass of her body—38-28-42, curves that turned heads even when she wasn't trying, which she never was. Dark auburn hair pulled into a severe low bun, a few strands already escaping to frame a face that was all sharp angles and quiet intensity: full mouth set in a perpetual line of concentration, brown eyes that could freeze a room or thaw it depending on her mood. Right now, they were ice.
The charge nurse, Maria—a veteran who'd seen every flavor of crisis—spotted her first and visibly straightened.
"Dr. Blackwood," she said, voice dropping half an octave. "Overdose in bay six just cleared. Seventeen-year-old female, cocaine and benzos cocktail. Stabilized, discharged AMA against medical advice thirty minutes ago. Family security scooped her before we could even finish the paperwork."
Rowan didn't break stride. "Chart?"
Maria handed it over without being asked. Their fingers brushed; Maria's hand trembled slightly. Rowan noticed but said nothing, flipping pages with clinical detachment.
"Pulse ox bottomed at eighty-two on arrival. Narcan x2, fluids, activated charcoal. She woke up swinging. Literally. Security had to restrain her until she could sign out."
Rowan's jaw tightened, the only outward sign of anything resembling emotion. "Restraints documented?"
"Every second. Video too, if the board asks."
"Good." Rowan closed the chart with a soft snap and handed it back. "Next."
A junior nurse—new, barely out of orientation—approached from the side with a tablet, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. She'd clearly been warned about the "ice queen with the body that could stop traffic" but hadn't believed it until now. Rowan's presence filled the hallway without effort; the scrubs did nothing to hide the dip of her waist or the swell of her hips when she turned. The girl swallowed hard.
"Uh—Dr. Blackwood? Trauma bay two. MVC, driver intubated, ETA three minutes. You're lead."
Rowan's gaze flicked to her—assessing, cold, beautiful in the way a scalpel is beautiful. The junior nurse took an involuntary half-step back.
"Then why are you still standing here?" Rowan asked, voice low and even, no volume needed to cut. "Prep the bay. Get me the crash cart updated and call anesthesia. If they're late again, I'll do the tube myself."
The junior nodded frantically and bolted.
Maria exhaled once Rowan had moved past. "Jesus. She's in a mood."
Another nurse, older, leaned against the station counter and watched Rowan disappear around the corner—long legs eating distance, coat flaring behind her like a cape.
"She's always in a mood," the older nurse muttered. "But God help us if she ever smiles. Half the attendings would combust on the spot."
Maria shook her head, already pulling up the next chart. "She doesn't smile. She saves lives. That's enough."
Down the hall, Rowan pushed through to trauma bay two, gloving up with movements so precise they looked rehearsed. The fluorescent lights caught the faint sheen of sweat already gathering at her temples from the long night shift she refused to acknowledge. Her curves shifted under the scrubs as she reached for the intubation kit—unignorable, even in crisis. A passing intern stole a glance, then immediately looked away when her eyes lifted and pinned him in place without a word.
She didn't acknowledge the stares. She never did.
Rowan Blackwood had built her reputation on control: of patients, of chaos, of herself. Beauty was incidental. Desire was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the next life in front of her—and the iron boundaries she drew around every single one of them.
Including her own.
The ambulance sirens grew louder outside. Rowan exhaled once, centered herself, and stepped forward into the storm she knew was coming.
Ready. Always ready.
The trauma bay finally quieted after the MVC patient was wheeled to the OR—stable, for now. Rowan stripped off her gloves with a snap, tossed them into the biohazard bin, and stepped into the narrow staff corridor that served as a makeshift break area. She leaned against the wall for exactly seven seconds, eyes closed, letting the adrenaline bleed out of her system the way she always did: controlled, measured, never indulgent.
A bundle of reports waited on the rolling cart beside her—discharge summaries, consult notes, the overdose chart from earlier still open on top. She picked it up again, scanning the final addendum the resident had scrawled: Patient verbal, oriented ×3 on discharge. Refused all follow-up referrals. Signature: illegible scrawl that somehow managed to look arrogant even on paper.
Rowan's thumb traced the edge of the page once, then she set it aside. She dropped onto the low bench, elbows on knees, head bowed for a moment of silence that never lasted.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket—sharp, insistent. She pulled it out without looking, already knowing who it was from the custom vibration pattern she'd assigned years ago.
Noah.
She answered on the second ring, voice flat but softer than it had been all shift.
"What."
A bright, teasing laugh burst through the speaker before her brother even spoke. Noah Blackwood, fourteen going on twenty-four, voice still cracking at the edges but full of mischief.
"Wow, rude. That's how you answer when your favorite sibling calls? I could be dying, Ro."
"You're not dying. You're supposed to be in algebra right now."
"Study hall. Teacher's out sick. I'm basically unsupervised. Dangerous times."
Rowan pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting the smile that wanted to crack her composure. "Dangerous for everyone else, maybe. What do you want, menace?"
"First, confirmation that you're still alive and not buried under a pile of gunshot wounds or whatever ER nonsense you do for fun. Second—Mom made your favorite. That stupid lentil soup with the extra cumin that smells like a spice market exploded. She says if you don't come home tonight and eat some, she's going to freeze it in individual portions labeled 'Rowan's Guilt Trip, Do Not Touch.'"
Rowan exhaled through her nose, the sound almost a laugh. "Tell her I'm on nights this week. I'll grab something from the cafeteria."
Noah made an exaggerated gagging noise. "Cafeteria? Ro, that's not food, that's punishment. Mom's literally hovering with the ladle right now. She's giving me the look—the one where her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. Say yes or I'm putting you on speaker."
"Don't you dare."
"Too late—hey Mom! She's on the line! She says cafeteria food is fine!"
A softer voice filtered in from the background—Clara Blackwood, warm even through static, the same voice that had once talked Rowan through every childhood nightmare and every med-school breakdown.
"Rowan Elizabeth Blackwood, don't you lie to your little brother. I know you haven't eaten anything real since yesterday. I packed extra in the Tupperware. Bring it to work tomorrow if you won't come home. And don't think I won't call the charge nurse again to make sure you do."
Rowan leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closing again. The fluorescent hum overhead felt suddenly less oppressive.
"Mom—"
"No arguments. You're saving lives, fine. But you don't get to neglect your own. Noah's right—it's your favorite. Eat something. Please."
A beat of silence. Rowan's voice came out quieter, the ice thawed just enough for family to see through.
"…Fine. I'll take it tomorrow. Tell him to stop being a snitch."
Noah whooped in triumph. "Victory! Also, you owe me ice cream for emotional labor. And maybe a new game. That one with the zombies—"
"Study hall's almost over. Go pretend to learn something."
"Love you too, big sis. Don't die out there."
The call ended with his laugh still echoing.
Rowan sat there another moment, phone still warm in her hand. The reports stared up at her accusingly from the cart. She reached over, closed the overdose file with deliberate care, then stood.
Back to the floor.
But the edge of exhaustion had dulled, just a fraction, warmed by the reminder that somewhere outside these walls, people still expected her to come home whole.
She pushed through the doors again, coat flaring, curves shifting under scrubs that had no right to look that good after sixteen hours, and disappeared back into the controlled storm she called work.
Ready for the next one.
Always.
The suite's silence shattered with the first trill of Isadora's phone—sharp, insistent, vibrating against the glass coffee table like it was trying to drill through to the floor below. The screen lit up: "Father." No photo, just the name in stark white text on black, the way she'd programmed it years ago so she'd never accidentally soften at the sight of his face.
Isadora didn't move. She stayed sprawled on the bed, one arm flung over her eyes, robe still half-open, legs tangled in the sheets. The ringing cut off after six cycles, went to voicemail, then started again immediately. Same caller. Same refusal to be ignored.
Lexi, cross-legged on the floor now with a fresh line of coke already laid out on the mirror like an offering, glanced up.
"Your dad's on a mission. That's like, ring number three in a row."
Isadora didn't uncover her eyes. "Let it die."
The phone obliged for about ten seconds. Then it lit up again—this time "Ryan." Stepbrother. The fake-nice one who always texted with too many emojis and never meant a single one.
Jade snorted from the armchair, mid-sip of his energy drink. "Now the golden boy's joining the party. Bet he's got a scripted 'concerned sibling' message ready to copy-paste."
The ringing stopped. Silence. Then—immediately—another buzz. This one "Bianca." Stepmother. The screen flashed her name like a warning label.
Lexi laughed, short and mean. "Wow. Full family reunion on your notifications. Pick anyone, babe. At least shut them up so we can hear ourselves think."
Isadora finally dropped her arm, sat up slowly. Her hair was a wild halo around her face, eyes still glassy from whatever cocktail lingered in her bloodstream, but the expression that settled there was pure, cold refusal.
"I don't wanna hear that bitch's voice," she said, voice low and flat. "Not today. Not ever."
Lexi raised an eyebrow, impressed despite herself. "Damn. Specific. You usually just say 'fuck all of them.'"
"Because usually they're all the same level of garbage," Isadora snapped, snatching the phone off the table just as it started ringing again—Bianca, round two. She stared at the screen like it had personally insulted her, thumb hovering over "decline." Instead she powered the whole thing off with a vicious jab, the screen going black like a slammed door.
The room went quiet except for the low hum of the city outside and the faint fizz of Jade opening another can.
"Bold move," Jade said, almost admiring. "They'll just send security next. Or worse—your grandfather. That old fucker doesn't text. He shows up."
Isadora tossed the dead phone onto the mattress like it was contaminated. "Let them come. I'll be gone before they get here." She swung her legs off the bed, stood, wobbled for half a second before catching herself on the bedpost. "We're leaving. Now. Somewhere they can't track. Private jet, yacht, fucking moon—I don't care. Just not here."
Lexi grinned, already reaching for her own phone to make calls. "Atta girl. Where to, princess? Ibiza? Mykonos? Or we just keep running till the cards max out?"
Isadora's smile was slow, dangerous, the kind that promised trouble for anyone who tried to stop her.
"Anywhere but the cage they built for me," she said. "And if they want to play chase? Fine. Let's see how long they last."
She crossed to the mirror, wiped a stray line of white from under her nose with the back of her hand, met her own reflection's eyes—dark, defiant, already plotting the next escape.
The phone stayed dark on the bed behind her.
For now.
But in the Ravencroft world, silence never lasted long.