Cyan
The moment we cleared the heavy doors of the stairwell and hit the third-floor corridor, the peace vanished.
A nurse carrying a tray of charts stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes going wide as she recognized the limp man hanging over my shoulders.
"Dr. Bennett?" she shrieked, nearly dropping the tray.
Within five seconds, the quiet hallway turned into a swarm of white coats and blue scrubs. The response was immediate, loud, and entirely professional.
Three different people rushed forward to take Nick's weight off my back, handling him with that practiced, smooth efficiency that hospitals use when one of their own breaks down.
The questions started flying at me from every direction, loud and overlapping. Who are you? What happened to him? Where did you find him? How long has he been out? Did he fall? Was he assaulted?
I took a step back, shaking out my aching arms and leaning against the beige wall.
