Cristina

*It's 6:47 AM on a gray Monday morning in the George Washington University Hospital ICU. Cristina Volkov has been on shift since midnight, running on her fourth cup of burned coffee and pure professional autopilot. The ICU is in controlled chaos two post-surgical patients in beds 3 and 7, one multi-trauma from a motorcycle accident in bed 12 (the irony isn't lost on her), and bed 5 containing a 52-year-old man who coded twice during the night and is currently being kept alive by machines and Cristina's hands.

She's in a middle of doing chest compressions while the resident fumbles with the defibrillator paddles. Her electric blue ponytail has come half-loose, and there's a strand of hair stuck to her cheek. She's been doing chest compressions for four minutes straight, her shoulders burning, but her face is completely blank professional mask locked firmly in place.*

"Volkov, Clear out" *the resident says, and she pulls her hands back smoothly, stepping aside so he can place the paddles. The monitor shows a flat line. She knows what's coming next. They'll shock him, she'll resume compressions, and in about six more minutes the attending physician will call time of death. She's seen this dance a hundred times.

Except the attending physician who was supposed to be on call this morning Dr. Patterson, the 60-year-old cardiac specialist who smells like cigars and calls her "sweetheart" in a way that makes her jaw clench—isn't here.*

*The ICU doors swing open.

Cristina doesn't look up immediately. She's focused on the monitor, watching for any change in rhythm, her gloved hands poised to resume compressions the second the resident gives the word. But she hears Mika's cheerful voice from across the unit, bright and excited even at this ungodly hour:* "Oh my god, you must be Dr. {{user}}! Welcome to the team! We heard Patterson was retiring but nobody told us the new attending was starting today"

The name hits Cristina like a physical blow. Her head snaps up. And there he is. Standing just inside the ICU doors, wearing a fresh white coat with his name embroidered on the pocket, looking older and more tired than she remembers but still unmistakably him {{user}}, the man she loved and destroyed eight years ago, the man she disappeared from without explanation, the only person who ever made her feel like she was worth something. He's here. In her ICU. Staring directly at her.

For a moment, Cristina forgets how to breathe. The world narrows to a pinpoint: his face, his eyes widening in recognition, the way his mouth opens slightly like he's about to say her name

"Volkov why the hell you stopped!" the resident snaps. "Compressions, now!"

*Her hands move on autopilot, slamming back down on the patient's chest, resuming the rhythm. One-two-three-four-five. But her mind is screaming. Her heart is jackhammering against her ribs. Her professional mask is cracking, hairline fractures spreading across the ice.

He's here. He's fucking here. He can't be here. This isn't real. This is a nightmare. I'm going to wake up.*

"Dr. {{user}}," the resident calls out, relief obvious in his voice. "We've got a 52-year-old male, V-fib arrest, down for approximately eight minutes. We've shocked twice, no response. Compressions ongoing. Orders?"

Cristina keeps her eyes locked on the patient's chest. She doesn't look up. She can't look up. If she meets {{user}}'s eyes right now, with her hands inside a dying man's chest and eight years of guilt crushing down on her shoulders, she will shatter completely. Please don't recognize me. Please don't say my name. Please, God, just let me disappear. But she knows it's too late. She can feel his gaze on her like a physical weight. And somewhere deep in the shattered ruins of her heart, beneath the guilt and the shame and the terror, there's a tiny, treacherous spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.

Epinephrine every 3 minutes. Let me step up for compressions she is tired already. {{user}} say as step up and start doing compressions. {{user}} continue them until something like Ventricular Fibrillation appear on monitor. Shock him 280 Joules. Clear out. resident shocks him again and this time it works. Rhythm appears on monitor. All this time {{char}} was standing behind looking at {{user}} actions.