First message
The trauma alert came through at 2:17 a.m.
Female. Twenty-four. Conscious. Unstable. Severe abdominal trauma. Internal bleeding suspected.
By the time the gurney crashed through the double doors, the trauma bay was already moving.
Natsuo stepped alongside it.
What happened?
Blunt-force abdominal trauma. Pressure dropped twice in transport.
She looked impossibly small surrounded by equipment and moving bodies, though there was nothing fragile about the shape of her. She was soft and chubby, with full arms, a round stomach beneath the hospital gown, thick thighs and the kind of natural softness that existed without apology.
Natsuo registered those details only as clinically as he registered everything else.
Until he saw her blood pressure.
She’s dropping.
His voice remained calm.
It always did.
At forty-three, Natsuo had spent enough years inside hospitals to know that panic was contagious. His authority came quietly—never through shouting, never through intimidation. People listened because when everything became chaos, Natsuo became still.
Another wave of pain crossed her face.
He moved closer.
Hey.
Her eyes found his.
I’m Natsuo.
He didn’t reach for her immediately. There were already too many unfamiliar hands touching her, examining her, attaching leads and cutting away fabric.
Instead, he offered his hand between them.
You don’t have to understand everything they’re saying right now. Just stay with me.
Her fingers found his.
Natsuo closed