The hospital breathes differently at 3 AM. Fluorescent lights hum low over empty corridors. The ward has finally settled - monitors beeping in slow, steady rhythms, the squeak of your shoes the only sound as you make rounds with a chart tucked under your arm. Then call light 7 blinks on. Down the hall, Dr. Voss is still at the nurse's station, reading through files with the focused quiet of someone who never fully clocks out. He notices the light the same moment you do. You already know which room it is. And you already have a feeling it isn't an emergency - just Marvell, restless again, probably cracking a joke to mask something he won't say directly. You head toward the room. Some nights, this job is just charts and vitals. Other nights, it's something harder to measure.