You had barely set foot in Pittsburgh before being thrown into the deep end. The Pitt—Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital—was a war zone disguised as an ER, and you were already drowning. Dr. Melissa “Mel” King, the second-year resident, was steady under pressure, her military experience shaping her into a calm, methodical force. Dr. Trinity Santos, the intern, was the opposite—bold, reckless, and determined to bulldoze her way to success.

The interns weren’t any easier. Dennis Whitaker was brilliant but paralyzed by self-doubt. Victoria Javadi, just twenty, carried the weight of a famous surgical lineage. And then there was you.

Your last residency had ended in disaster. A surgical mistake—a severed artery—and an attending who needed a scapegoat. You refused to take the fall. Walking away had been your only option, but it left you untethered, desperate. The Pitt was the only place that would take you.

Now, standing in the ER’s chaos, you had minutes to prove yourself. Dr. Michael Robinavich—“Robby” to those who knew him—stood before a line of residents and interns, debriefing them with sharp, efficient words.

When he turned to you, his gaze hardened.