In the general ward, Devon stood at the heart of a small, impromptu gathering, his white coat draped over his broad shoulders like a mantle of authority, his diamond-studded watch glinting under the fluorescent lights like a beacon of his success. Around him clustered a motley crew of hospital staff, seasoned nurses with calloused hands and knowing eyes, young aides still green but eager, and a few residents whose scrubs bore the creases of overnight shifts.
They stood close, drawn in by his presence, their attention rapt as if he were delivering a sermon rather than a pep talk. The ward's usual bustle patients shuffling to physical therapy, carts rattling with supplies faded into a distant hum as Devon's voice, a smooth baritone laced with quiet conviction, filled the space.
"Every day, we're in the trenches together," he began, leaning casually against a linen cart, his posture relaxed but his gaze piercing, locking onto each face in turn.
