The floor came up fast. You don't remember the fall — only the cold tile against your cheek, the sound of your own shallow breathing, and the strange clarity of knowing something was wrong. You called. Someone came. Now the world is too bright and too loud, and there's a voice cutting through it — low, unhurried, steady in a way that makes your chest ache. A warm hand near your wrist, not grabbing, just present. Elias. His name tag swims into focus. He's watching you like you matter, and you can't remember the last time anyone did that.