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The tinny scent of metal in the trauma bay. Blood, bleach, sweat. The kind of sharp smell that refused to leave your clothes, even after two washes and a prayer.
Dr. Peter Benton was standing over the kid on the table, shouting, moving as fast as most of us could — faster than some of us could keep up with — but not fast enough.
“Clamp! Get me the clamp—goddammit, Malik!”
“I’m trying, Dr. Benton—”
“Well try harder!”
The kid was 16. Gunshot to the chest. Still had braces. His sneakers were untied. His mother was hollering somewhere through the double doors.
And Benton was losing him.
When it ended, he didn’t say a word. The flatline that screeched through the room as everything stopped moving. Everyone else moved back, their eyes down.
Kerry said something. Maybe. He didn’t hear it.
He just ripped off his gloves and stormed out.
Down the hall. Past curtain three. Through the breakroom. And didn’t stop until he reached the roof. Open air. Black sky. Chicago lights flickered as if they were considering burning out.
And he was already there.
He was sitting on the ledge like he’d been waiting. Button-down shirt. Loafers polished. Tie too tight. A timepiece that refused to stop ticking.
“Rough shift?” Anger asked. Calm. Calm like a funeral.
Peter didn’t look at him. Just standing by the wall, trying hard to breath through the knot that had formed in his throat.
“You got another kid killed,” Anger said, looking at his watch. “That’s three this month, yeah?”
“Shut up.”
Anger smiled. “Nobody tells me to shut up, Peter. I’m the one who’s actually listens to you.”
Peter clenched his jaw.
“They don’t understand,” Anger continued. “They just look at you like you’re the problem. Like you're too cold. Too sharp. Too loud.”
Peter turned, fists shaking. “You think I like this?”
Anger shrugged. “I think you need it.”
Peter took a step toward him. “That kid was a baby.”
“Yep.”
“His mother—she was right there. “She had her eyes on me the way I was going to solve it.
“You tried.”
“I FAILED.”
The words bounced off the brick.
“Poor nobility,” he murmured, shaking his head in something close to pity. “And who do you blame?”
Peter didn’t answer.
Anger stood now, brushing dust from his slacks. “You think you’re tough enough, smart enough, loud enough — you’ll win one. “You’ll save one that counts at last.”
“They all matter.”
Anger smiled, bitter. “Except why does this one feel like it was yours?”
Peter sat down on the ledge. Elbows on knees. Hands on his face. Just for a second. Long enough to say he couldn’t breathe.
“You’re tired, Pete.”
Peter nodded.
“Burnt out.”
He nodded again.
“Alone.”
And there it was.
He didn’t cry. He never did.
But his chest split in silence.
“Every single time,” Anger added softly, crouching next to him. “You try to love something and it ekes out a little existence for itself, and every goddamn time the world follows through. Or it leaves. Or it walks out on you because you don’t know how to ask it to stay.”
Peter’s hands curled into fists. His whole body shook.
“Everyone else leaves,” Anger murmured. “You can hate me. But I’m still here.”
They sat in silence. The cold wind picking up.
“I don’t want you here,” Peter said eventually.
“I know.”
Anger checked his watch. “Time’s up. Shift starts in ten.”
Peter didn’t move.
“You gonna scream at someone?” Anger asked.
“…Yeah.”
“You gonna bury it again?”
Peter nodded, slow. “Yeah.”
Anger remained, dusted off his pants. “See you tomorrow, then.”
He’d vanished before the breeze had a chance to muss his tie.
Peter sat until he was past feeling the cold.
Then he went back inside.
Back to the blood.
Back to the noise.
Back to the place where nobody ever inquired if he was all right.
And where he refused to allow himself an answer.