Chapter Text
Heat, sweat, and shouting fill the arena. Thousands of voices rising into one endless roar.
Spotlights snap from corner to corner, slicing through the haze like blades. Every seat is full of people who came here hoping to watch someone get hurt.
And at the center of it all is her.
Violet.
“Vi” to fans, commentators, and the thousand posters plastered across half the city.
Every step is steady and sure, practiced enough that the space seems to bend around her. Her gloves gleam under the lights, her jawline sharp and stubborn, her stance nothing but confidence and the promise of impact.
Around you, you can hear the commentary through the stadium speakers:
“Vi is undefeated this quarter—
Quick reminder, she comes from Black Forge Gym, one of the toughest camps in the East—
And she’s coached by Markus Hoss, former welterweight champ—”
Black Forge.
You’ve treated their fighters before. A notorious camp. Brutal training methods. Talent grown from concrete and blood.
And Vi is their crown jewel.
You’ve seen her fights on TV — everyone has. But being here? Seeing her in person?
She's faster than the footage makes her look. Her punches land and you feel them from the stands, her footwork is disciplined, she makes dodging look effortless.
And then—
It all shatters.
It happens too fast—your eyes barely register the motion before you hear the crack of glove on flesh. A brutal hit to her shoulder, perfectly angled.
Vi’s arm drops.
It just hangs uselessly, like the bones inside have forgotten their purpose.
The ref sees it instantly, and calls it, aves it off.
The crowd erupts, some people cheering, others cursing the outcome.
Behind the ropes, you see trainers arguing, shouting:
“That was intentional!”
“She targeted the shoulder!”
“File a protest—”
“Hoss, the cameras saw everything—”
Vi doesn’t even look at the ref.
She turns away, jaw clenched so hard you think teeth might break, and storms toward the exit tunnel. Cameras chase her like vultures desperate for blood.
You hear the whispers.
“Maybe she’s slipping.”
“Black Forge isn’t what it used to be.”
“If she’s injured, the champ spot is up for grabs—”
Your phone vibrates in your pocket. A message from the arena’s medical coordinator: “Staff needed in Med Bay immediately. Vi’s injured.”
You already know the drill. Your clinic contracts with the arena for fight nights, and while the supervising physician is technically the ringside doc, you’re the one who handles most of the hands-on work. It’s not just familiarity with the fighters, your background as an ER NP, trauma-trained, makes you the one they rely on when seconds count. Scrubs, gloves, quick thinking, that’s your domain.
You slide the phone back into your pocket, already moving. Gear tucked, clipboard in hand, you head for the staff elevator, the hum of the building echoing faintly around you. Tonight, like every fight night you cover, you’re the one they count on to keep the fighters functional, and sometimes alive.
The medical bay smells of disinfectant and faint antiseptic. Drawers click, machines beep softly in the background, and the fluorescent lights hum overhead. You’re part of the staff here today, called in specifically for situations like this.
The hallway outside the treatment rooms bustles with movement. People step aside as she passes. Nobody wants to get in her way when she's pissed off.
And then the door swings open with enough force to rattle your clipboard.
Vi stands there, damp hair clinging to her temples. She looks like she fought the devil and is ready to go back for seconds.
Her coach, Markus, is right behind her, face lined with stress. He mutters into his phone:
“Tell the board she’s fine. No, she’s not pulling out of qualifiers.
Yes, schedule the rematch with Torres—
No, don’t tell the press shit.”
You check her chart.
“Violet,” you read aloud. “Clean dislocation. Likely a muscle tear.” Your eyes lift, sharp. “And you didn’t stabilize it.”
Her glare could pry paint off a wall. “Didn’t need to.”
“You do now.”
Behind her, Markus groans softly and pinches the bridge of his nose. “She doesn’t listen to anybody,” he mutters.
“She’s going to listen to me,” you reply.
Vi eyes you, breath still uneven from the fight.
“You talk like that to all your patients,” she says, voice low and edged, “or just the ones who can hit back?”
You snap a glove on, not breaking eye contact for a single second. “Only when someone’s being stupid.”
Her lip curves.
“You think I’m stupid?”
You step close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Your fingers trace gently along the swollen curve of her shoulder, mapping the tightness, the unnatural dip where the joint has slipped forward.
She inhales sharply through her teeth.
You feel it immediately: the displaced humeral head, the spasming muscle beneath. Dislocation for sure… maybe a tear too, almost definitely. But you’ll confirm that once you get the joint back in place.
You look up at her, your hand still on her arm. “I think you’re human,” you murmur. “And humans can’t out-stare a dislocated shoulder, no matter how tough they pretend to be.”
The muscles in her throat tighten as your fingers follow the well by the joint.
The pain is there, you can feel it thrumming beneath her skin, but she refuses to flinch again.
You step around her slightly, guiding her toward the padded treatment table with a gentle pressure at her elbow.
“Sit,” you say.
She doesn’t. She just stares at you, breathing through her nose like a bull about to charge.
You soften your tone. “Violet. If I put this back while you’re standing, you’re going to fight me on instinct and make it worse.”
For a fraction of a second, she hesitates. Then she sits, irritated, but she sits.
Markus lets out a slow breath in the corner.
You slip your hand under her wrist, lifting her forearm to take the weight off the joint. Vi’s lips part, a tiny inhale at the sudden pressure shift. You guide her arm into position, your other hand resting firmly against the front of her shoulder, stabilizing her.
“This is going to hurt,” you warn quietly.
Her eyes flick to yours.
A smirk ghosts across her mouth, quick and crooked.
“Then do it.”
You tighten your grip.
Her muscles twitch reflexively, fighting you.
“Vi,” you murmur, soft but firm, “you need to breathe.”
She huffs a laugh. “You sound like my coach.”
“Your coach isn’t about to reset your shoulder.”
She exhales slowly, her thigh brushing yours as she shifts to brace herself.
You angle her arm slightly, traction, rotation, gentle leverage, practiced movements.
Her breath hitches. Her fingers curl around the edge of the table until the leather creaks.
“Easy,” you whisper. “Almost—”
A sharp, wet clunk.
The joint slides back into place.
Vi’s whole body jolts, a sudden full-body tension that melts out of her as the pain changes, sharp to deep to relief.
Her head drops forward, breath shaking once before she catches it.
You keep your hand on her shoulder a moment longer, letting the muscles settle.
Markus straightens. “Good. Good. That’s good—”
“Don’t—” Vi rasps, glare cutting sideways.
You’re the one who pulls your hand back first.
She lifts her head, eyes meeting yours. There’s no bravado left for a heartbeat, just exposed gratitude she refuses to express.
“That all you got?” she mutters.
You raise a brow. “Depends. You planning on dislocating anything else today?”
Her smile is way too pleased. “Only if it pisses you off.”
You snort softly and shift your hold, fingers carefully testing the arc of her shoulder.
The joint is solid now, re-set cleanly, but the moment she tries to lift past a certain point, the muscle jumps beneath your thumb. A tight, involuntary spasm.
You feel it before she flinches.
“Supraspinatus,” you say quietly, more to yourself than her. “Minor tear. You’re lucky.”
Vi bristles. “I’m always lucky.”
Markus gives her a look. “You literally just lost.”
She whips a glare at him so deadly he actually steps back.
You pull your hand away and reach for your chart.
Vi’s gaze tracks the motion of your hand as you write:
clean dislocation, mild tear, no fracture, reduction successful, recommend rest + physio + light mobility.
You finish the note, tear off the aftercare sheet, and offer it to her.
She doesn’t take it.
“You’re benching me,” she says.
It isn’t anger this time.
“For a few weeks,” you reply.
“I don’t sit out.”
“You do when your shoulder is injured.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s torn.”
She scoffs. “Barely.”
“Still torn.”
Markus sighs at the ceiling. “Kid, just take the damn paper.”
You hold it out again, unbothered.
Finally Vi snatches it from your hand.
“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” she mutters, not even looking at you as she says it.
“I talk until the job’s done,” you reply. “You being difficult doesn’t change that.”
Markus shakes his head. “She’s like this with everyone,” he says quietly. “Don’t take it personal.”
“I don’t,” you reply. “My job’s to keep her functional, not comfortable.”
You turn toward the door, documentation tucked under your arm.
Behind you, Vi lets out a tight, annoyed exhale, more frustration at the situation than anything to do with you.
“We done here?” she asks flatly.
“Yes,” you respond without turning back. “No sparring for at least a week.”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
You step into the hallway, the door closing behind you with a soft click.
For a moment, you just breathe, a long exhale to shed the tension Vi always leaves behind. Then you head down the short corridor toward the staff alcove tucked behind the med wing — the one only licensed personnel can access. A badge-swipe, a muted beep, and the frosted-glass door unlocks.
Inside, it’s the usual organized chaos: trauma bags half-restocked from the last bout, rolls of gauze piled in lopsided stacks, the portable ECG you keep begging the council to replace, and the narrow desk where all the on-call nurses scribble updates between emergencies. Your locker sits against the back wall, metal chilled under your fingertips as you open it.
You stow the used supplies for sterilization, pull out fresh ones, and set your tablet on the desk. Only then do you start charting — final notes on Vi’s injuries, scheduling her mandatory follow-up, flagging her file so she won’t be cleared prematurely.
You gather your gear, double-checking the last of your charts and supplies. The medical wing is quiet now, only the hum of the overhead lights breaking the silence.
You take a deep breath, running a hand over your face.
Another shift done. Another fighter treated. You double-check the supply room one last time, making sure everything is in order for the next round of injuries.
Satisfied, you sling your bag over your shoulder and push open the exit door.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
You step out into the cool night, the buzz of the arena fading behind you. The streets are slick with rain, neon signs reflecting off the wet asphalt like shards of broken light.
At the curb, you drop your bag into your car, and settle into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life, tires whispering over wet pavement as you merge into the quiet streets.
The world outside your windshield moves in soft blurs—shuttered shops, quiet apartment buildings, puddles rippling under passing headlights.
Music hums low from the speakers, familiar and steady, giving your thoughts something to latch onto.
Within minutes, the familiar glow of the corner diner comes into view, casting a soft amber wash over the sidewalk.
You ease into a parking spot and climb out, grabbing your wallet before pushing toward the entrance.
You slide onto a stool at the counter, peeling off your jacket, and the waitress gives you a tired smile. “Rough night?”
“Something like that,” you murmur, running a hand through your hair. You order a burger, fries, black coffee —the kind of order you don't have to think about.
You glance down at your phone, half-expecting a message, half-dreading it. And there it is, a string of texts from Sam.
Sam: Hey… you there?
Sam: I miss you.
Sam: We need to talk.
The texts are from earlier. You've been not-reading them since the first one came through.
You've been doing this for weeks — keeping everything moving, extra shifts, the paperwork, the day-to-day — and Sam keeps showing up in the cracks. You stare at the screen long enough that the display dims. You don't type anything.
You sigh, sliding the phone into your pocket. Some battles you pick, some you walk away from. For now, you eat your meal slowly, savoring the greasy comfort and the quiet hum of the shitty diner TV.
You finish the last few bites of your food and toss a twenty on the counter.
“Thanks,” you murmur sliding off the stool. The waitress nods, distracted by the late-night crowd.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Fifteen minutes later, you pull into the gravel drive of your duplex, the soft crunch under your tires oddly comforting after a long day. You kill the engine, grab your bag, and let your shoulders slump for the first time in hours.
Inky is already there when you open the door — your little tabby shadow — padding across the floor with her tail high and her whiskers twitching in welcome.
The moment she lets out that soft, questioning mrrp, something inside you unclenches. The smile comes without thought.
You set your bag down by the coat rack and toe off your shoes, Inky weaving between your ankles like she’s herding you deeper inside. You follow her straight to the bathroom.
The shower is hot, loud, and grounding. Steam curls around you as the water pounds across your shoulders, rinsing away sweat, tension, antiseptic, and the sharp edges of the day.
After your shower, you slip into bed, and Inky hops up immediately, circling once before pressing herself against your side, purring like she’s stitching you back together.
You pull the quilt up over your shoulders and let its familiar weight settle.
You don't fall asleep immediately, but you get there. Little by little, your body starts to relax.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The morning light is insistent, slipping between the blinds and casting stripes across your bed. You stretch, muscles stiff from yesterday’s long shift and the adrenaline that didn’t entirely leave your system.
Inky twines around your legs, more interested in breakfast than your thoughts, insisting that the world is calm, that the day can start slowly. You hum along, letting your body wake a little at a time.
Even as you shower and dress, your mind drifts back to last night: the reduction, the taping, the instructions you gave Vi. You replay her stubborn defiance, the way she bristled at every precaution, and the tension between letting her push herself and keeping her safe.
High-level fighters rarely liked being told what to do, and Vi seemed to take particular pride in ignoring advice she didn't want to hear.
By the time you reach Peakline Clinic, your coffee is still hot, steam curling into the cool morning air as you approach the glass front doors. You fish out your keys, unlock the entrance, and step inside. The lobby is dim and silent, just the emergency lights glowing along the baseboards.
You let the door fall shut behind you as you cross to the front desk, set your coffee down, and flip on the overheads. The clinic hums softly to life. You shrug out of your coat, grab your tablet, and start your usual opening routine, checking the schedule, reviewing patient notes, mentally organizing the day.
You move down the hallway toward the exam rooms, reaching to unlock the internal door—
“Morning.”
The voice comes from behind you, inside the clinic.
You turn sharply.
Vi stands against the wall a few steps inside the entrance, like she ghosted in behind you the second the lock clicked open. Her shoulder is wrapped exactly the way you left it, and her posture is a mix of stubborn pride and impatience, enough to tell you she’s been here longer than she’d admit.
“…You’re here early,” you manage.
“Early?” she repeats, arching an eyebrow. “I wanted to see if I can move it.”
You take in her stance, noting the subtle twitch of tension in her arm and the faint swell under the wrap.
Of course she didn’t rest. You’re not even surprised.
“Alright,” you say, masking the irritation with professional calm. “We’ll check it out.”
Inside the exam room, you motion for her to sit. Gloves on, you run through your mental checklist: palpation, range-of-motion, swelling, stability. Vi lifts her chin, jaw tight, daring you to scold her.
“You’re moving it too far,” you say calmly, gently stopping her arm. “You’re not ready to do that on your own.”
“Looks fine to me,” she mutters, voice clipped, bristling at your control.
Your eyes meet hers. “You can think you’re fine all you want. But if you don’t follow the instructions I gave you, you’re going to make it worse, and you’re going to end up back here anyway.”
Her fingers tighten on her thighs, almost like she’s measuring how much she can resist before you push back.
“Range of motion,” you direct, slow and controlled. She follows, barely. A flicker of pain crosses her face before she buries it beneath a glare.
“Good,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her, pen scratching across the chart.
Partial tear. Dislocation reduced. Patient noncompliant but stable under guided assessment. The words look sterile and detached on paper—completely removed from the actual reality of managing someone like Vi.
You set the chart aside and look at her directly. “Now, listen to me.”
Your voice firms, adopting the exact weight needed to cut through adrenaline, stubbornness, and ego. “No training. Ice three times a day. Anti-inflammatories as prescribed. You don’t push it, you don’t test it, and you don’t argue. Understood?”
She looks up slowly, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass, weighing whether to challenge the ground you’re standing on.
“I don’t argue,” she mutters, voice low, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth.
You almost laugh, not out loud, but somewhere deep in the private space of your thoughts.
“You will follow instructions,” you counter. “If you don’t, we reset it again, and I’ll know the second you lie to me about compliance. Clear?”
The breath she lets out is sharp. There's frustration in it, though she'd probably never admit as much. She doesn't like being handled. She doesn't like being corrected. And she definitely doesn't like being told what to do by someone she can't intimidate.
“Clear,” she grits out, crossing her arms. It’s a defensive posture, but she tries to make it look casual. It’s almost funny, if any part of this were meant to be funny.
You finish your documentation, checking boxes, adding notes, ensuring every instruction is logged.
When you look up, she's leaning against the wall, watching you with that unreadable expression she seems to default to. Arms crossed. Chin lifted. With Vi, it can be hard to tell whether she's waiting for you to speak or hoping you won't.
You step away from the desk. “We’re done for now. Check in tomorrow, same time. I’ll see how it’s holding. No excuses.”
Her chin lifts a fraction, either acknowledgment or challenge, sometimes with her, they look the same. “Fine. Same time.”
She leaves without waiting for dismissal, her gait steady but guarded, keeping her injured shoulder close to her side. The door shuts behind her with a soft mechanical click.
Silence returns.
And for just a moment, the professional part of you drops.
She’s going to push herself, she always will.
Pushing through pain is second nature to her. You're not sure she knows any other way.
For now, though, she’s following your rules.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The lights hum softly as you move through the clinic, clipboard in hand. The faint smell of latex gloves and menthol rub hangs in the air, strangely comforting in its own way. You've been here long enough that the mix barely registers anymore. It's simply part of the place now.
Tape rolls clatter. Therapy bands hang like colorful serpents along the wall. Somewhere down the hall, an ultrasound machine beeps its low warning that someone forgot to reset it.
A fighter steps in, knuckles raw, rubbing the bridge of his swollen nose.
“Morning, Doc,” he jokes, everyone here calls you that, even though you’re not one, you fill in for them a lot.
“Morning,” you reply, motioning him toward the exam chair. “Okay, let’s see it.”
Up close, the injury is textbook: swelling along the nasal dorsum, slight deviation, tenderness but no alarming crepitus. You’ve seen worse. You’ve fixed worse.
Your gloved fingers are gentle but firm as you palpate. “Breathing okay?”
“Yeah. Hurts like hell, though.”
“That’s kind of your brand,” you mutter, and he barks out a laugh that makes him wince.
You guide his head, thumbs steady, realigning the nasal bones with careful pressure. The subtle pop is one you’ve grown accustomed to; the body is always louder than the patient expects. A quick tape, a cold pack, and he’s patched up enough to spar later, though you tell him he shouldn’t. You both know he will.
By mid-morning, the waiting area is a blur of compression sleeves being pulled on, boots thudding across linoleum, athletes scrolling their phones with battered hands. You treat what comes: a subluxed shoulder reduced with a practiced maneuver, a runner with IT-band tension needing manual release, a gymnast with wrist tendinitis who pretends she isn’t scared of losing training time.
Every patient brings a different problem to solve.
You like that about this job. It gives you something you can fix, something you can measure. People walk in hurting and leave a little better than they were before. Life outside the clinic isn't always that straightforward.
You’re finishing a wrap on a swollen ankle, when a coworker leans into the doorway.
“Lunch break in an hour. Still alive?”
“Barely,” you say, but your smile softens the words. “Yeah, I’ll come.”
She disappears back toward the nurses’ station, already answering someone calling her name.
You scribble notes into charts, swelling reduced, follow-up recommended, mobility improving, each line neat and assured. This is the part no one sees on TV: the documenting, the methodical checking, making sure nothing gets overlooked. It matters just as much as splints and ice packs.
You take a breath and call the next patient's name.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The clock hits noon, and you finally step out of the clinic for a much-needed break. The door clicks shut behind you. Outside, the air feels cooler and fresher than the Clinic's, carrying the scent of asphalt and someone's barbecue from a couple blocks away.
The city hums with lunchtime energy: the hiss of street carts, someone's heels on pavement, a cab laying on its horn for no reason. .
You head to your usual spot—a small café a block away, tucked between a yoga studio and a climbing gym. Quiet enough to think. Loud enough to keep you from sinking into your own thoughts too deeply.
Dr. Evelyn Sato, owner of Peakline Sports Medicine Clinic, is already seated when you arrive. She’s tapping a perfectly manicured finger on the table in a rhythm that somehow sounds like both impatience and elegance. Her white coat is immaculate despite the morning she definitely had; her hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail that has never once moved out of place in the years you've known her.
She looks up and smiles. “Finally,” she says. “I was starting to think you’d skip lunch again. You really do live at that clinic, don’t you?”
“Something like that,” you reply, sliding into the seat across from her.
Evelyn leans back, assessing you with the kind of look she usually reserves for MRI scans. “So, what’s the chaos today? Broken noses? Sprained fingers? Or are we doing full orthopedic triage on a Monday?”
You smirk. “Mostly minor stuff. One broken nose this morning, a dislocated finger, and a few bruises from weekend sparring.”
“Ah,” she says, tilting her head in a way that makes her earrings catch the light. “The glamorous life of a nurse practitioner. Always something interesting.” Then her tone shifts, softening around the edges. “You’re good at it, though. People trust you. Even the… difficult ones.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Difficult ones?”
Her smile says she means exactly who you think she means. "Some fighters think they're invincible. Some are just stubborn. You handle it without losing your temper, which — honestly — I couldn't do."
You huff a quiet laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She reaches over and taps your hand lightly. “Seriously. You’re good at your job. Better than you give yourself credit for. And I don’t just mean clinical work, managing people is an entire skill set. One you have naturally.”
You glance down at your half-eaten sandwich. Compliments hit different coming from Evelyn—she never gives them out unless she means them, and her approval always lands with more weight than you expect.
Maybe because she’s the one who recruited you. Maybe because she sees more of you than most people do. Maybe because you’ve been running so hard for so long that slowing down to acknowledge your own competence feels foreign.
For a few minutes, the conversation drifts—clinic gossip, city rumors, a shared laugh over a particularly dramatic patient complaint. It’s grounding, a pause in the rhythm of work and fighters and schedules.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Back at the clinic, you go through the post-lunch reset. Exam Room 3, your usual station. Door cracked. Tongue depressor jar refilled, gauze drawer restocked, the alcohol swab wrapper you missed earlier finally in the bin.
You open the charting tablet and work through the morning's notes. ROM check, swelling minimal, follow-up advised.
When your documentation is caught up, you step into the hallway and walk the few feet to the nurses’ station—the semi-enclosed desk tucked just off the waiting room. From here, you see the lobby only in fragments: angled reflections in the glass wall, hints of movement, glimpses of legs, elbows, shadows. It’s by design; a place to work, not to be observed.
You wipe down the counter, straighten the pens in their holder, check the afternoon appointment list. You rewrite part of the whiteboard scheduling grid—just shorthand codes, room numbers, blocked procedures.
The waiting room is quiet today. A few patients are scattered across the molded chairs: an older man icing his ankle, his face scrunched against discomfort; a teenager scrolling through her phone, one AirPod missing; a woman filling out intake forms. Nobody needs anything from you right this second.
So you let yourself stand still for a moment.
Then the clinic door opens.
Not the soft hiss of someone easing in thoughtfully—but a wide, careless swing. Metal hinge scraping sharp enough to snap every head in the waiting room toward the sound.
Your stomach tightens before you even look, you know that energy.
You turn, and there she is. Sam.
Her hair's a little off, cheeks flushed, she either walked fast or spent twenty minutes working herself up outside first. Her eyes find you immediately.
A dozen people are watching.
Your personal life does not come to work. That's not a preference, it's a rule, and Sam has never cared about that boundary.
“Hey. We need to talk,” she says, stepping inside without hesitation.
"Sam." You keep your voice level. "This isn't the place. You can't just show up here."
"I need you to listen—"
"No." You take a step back, one hand up. "This is work. You need to leave."
She doesn't. Her fingers wrap around your wrist instead. "Stop acting like that. Just talk to me."
Humiliation and anger twist together in your gut. Nobody likes having their personal life put on display, especially at work.
Before you can pull away, a familiar voice interrupts.
“Let go."
Vi hovers just behind Sam, shoulders tight and visibly irritated, though the short temper seems to have more to do with the pain she might be in than anything happening in front of her. One glance from her says enough.
Sam doesn’t release you. “Who the hell are you? Mind your own business,” she snaps, grip tightening.
“I said let go.”
Sam rolls her eyes. “Seriously, what’re you going to—”
Without a word, Vi grabs Sam's wrist, forces her hand off you, and pushes her away.
“Fuck off,” Vi hisses.
The room goes still.
Sam stumbles, catching herself. Her lips twist into something bitter. “Oh wow,” she sneers, crossing her arms. “Are you—what?—fucking her? A patient? Really professional.”
You don't react. You know Sam’s patterns too well, she wants attention, she wants you pulled into her storm.
You refuse.
Vi doesn’t rise to the bait either, she only shifts subtly in front of you, protective without making a show of it.
Sam scoffs. “Fuck you,” she spits at Vi before pivoting sharply and storming out.
The click of her heels echoes through the clinic as she disappears out the door, leaving behind a faint trace of her perfume and a thick band of tension.
Nobody says a word, but it's obvious everyone saw what happened. A couple of patients avert their eyes. It doesn't stop the heat creeping into your face.
“Vi… what are you doing here?” you ask softly, careful to keep your voice low.
She doesn't look at you. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor, shoulders stiff and jaw tight. She doesn't joke or offer an explanation.
Only when she shifts her injured shoulder do your suspicions get confirmed. The flash of pain on her face is gone almost as soon as it appears.
"Come on," you say. "Let me check it."
She doesn't argue. That, more than anything, tells you something.
You guide her to an empty exam room, and immediately adjust the wrap, check her mobility, assess swelling, and give her the clearest instructions you can.
She listens, face shadowed and unreadable.
No thanks, no goodbye.
She turns and walks away, shoulders still tense. The sound of her boots gradually disappears down the hall.
You breathe out and smooth a hand over your scrubs.
What a fucking day.