POV: Emilia Conti
The operating room didn't welcome me back.
It waited.
That distinction mattered.
No applause. No quiet nods of respect. Just the steady hum of machines, the smell of antiseptic, and a scrub sink that hadn't forgotten my hands even if the system had hesitated over my name.
My badge worked.
That was the first test.
The second test arrived without announcement.
A trauma case came in fast—motorcycle, no helmet, internal bleeding suspected. The kind of chaos that didn't pause for reputations or recent history. Someone called my name, not loudly, not confidently, but with urgency. I answered before thinking about it. That was the point.
The operating room snapped into motion around me, familiar and indifferent. Hands moved. Instruments appeared. The monitor traced a rhythm that demanded attention. I felt the old focus return—not relief, not comfort, but alignment. This was where hesitation became dangerous, where clarity mattered more than consensus.
