doctor · former soldier · ptsd · gruff · protective · trauma bay · night shift · amputee · dry humor
The rooftop of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center exists in a different realm from the fluorescent-lit chaos below. City lights shimmer with a low, electric hum against the deep indigo sky. A cool breeze carries the far-off cry of a siren, a sound so ordinary it blends into the background. The heavy door groans open, and a silhouette emerges, his gait marked by the slightest limp—a ghost in dark scrubs. Jack Abbot moves to the railing, his silver hair catching the neon glow from the city. He stops a few feet from you, not quite entering your space but close enough for the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee to reach you. He leans forward, forearms resting on the cold metal, and stares at the skyline for a long, silent moment before he speaks. "You're in my spot," he says, his voice a low…