Chapter Text
Anya Hayes was in her head.
Once she got stuck there, it was hard to get out, like trying to wade through wet concrete. She stood in front of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center- The Pitt motionless. Her fingers toyed with the stiff collar of her white coat like it might strangle her if she let go.
Her feet wouldn’t move. As much as she told them to, they stayed planted. Cemented to the asphalt like they had something to prove.
This was stupid.
Not medicine, not exactly, she didn’t regret that. But this place. This hospital.
She exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled. Eleven years of blood, sleep deprivation, and gut-rot ambition had led to this moment — and here she was, stuck outside the goddamn door. Hospitals didn’t usually get to her. She’d been in too many. Visited too many. Waited in too many sterile chairs. But this one—this building—wrapped cold fingers around her throat and squeezed.
The red EMERGENCY letters glared down at her like a dare. She stared back, jaw tight. You can leave, a voice in her head whispered. Change your mind. Transfer. Or run. That was always an option.
Her stomach twisted.
No. She’d fought too fucking hard to get here. And she wasn’t running. Not from a building.
She started pacing- tight, restless steps that said I don’t have time for this, even though clearly, she did. Thinking made her move. Moving helped her breathe. She didn’t notice the woman approaching until the voice broke in.
“Hey!”
Anya stopped mid-step. Her spine went stiff. Someone had seen her spiraling, perfect. She turned to the voice with a guarded look already painted on her face, lips pressed into a neutral line.
The woman smiled- awkward, kind. She wore thick black glasses and pushed them up her nose like it was muscle memory. “Are you a resident as well?”
Anya blinked, trying to remember how to act like a normal human. She gave a short nod. “Yeah.”
The woman seemed relieved. “I’m Mel. Mel King. Second year resident.” She extended a hand, which Anya shook, her fingers still a little shaky.
“Anya Hayes. First year.”
Mel’s eyes softened with understanding. She glanced toward the door behind Anya, then back. “You okay?” Anya shrugged, trying to push the lump in her throat down. “Just… nerves, I guess. I didn’t think it’d be this overwhelming.”
Mel gave a small, unsure nod. “Trauma… it’s kind of a lot, huh? I’m still figuring it out myself, and honestly, some days I don’t know what I’m doing.” She shrugged, a little embarrassed. “But, uh, maybe that’s okay? We just have to keep trying.”
Anya breathed that in, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease just a little. The sound of the emergency room doors sliding open drew their attention. A gurney rolled out, a blur of motion and urgency. Anya’s heart thudded—this was where the real work began.
Mel gave her a small, encouraging nod before stepping inside. Anya watched her go, then turned back to the street, feeling the weight of the day settle around her. Maybe this was scary. Maybe it was hard. But it was hers now.
And she was ready to try.
The sterile, cold air of the ER settled around Anya as she made her way into the trauma center behind Mel, her eyes scanning the room. It was relatively slow for a Friday morning — a few quiet monitors beeping, the shuffle of nurses, the distant murmur of an agitated patient behind curtained walls. It wasn’t going to stay slow, though.
Anya could feel that in her bones already. The calm before something inevitable. The quiet before the flood. She hadn’t taken two steps past the sliding doors when someone bumped into her shoulder.
“Oh—sorry!” The guy who’d run into her turned, wide-eyed, half-panicked. “God, i’m so sorry- You’re a first year, right? I’m Dennis. Dennis Whitaker. Also new.” His hand jutted out awkwardly in greeting.
He looked like someone who had practiced confidence in the mirror and was still trying to find the real thing, she stifled a laugh, a smile peaking through the surface. “Anya,” she offered, shaking his hand briefly. “You okay?”
He let out a breathy, nervous laugh. “Not even close.”
Anya almost smiled. It made her feel a little better, somehow, that she wasn’t the only one who felt like a plane mid-nosedive. Then— “I thought we were supposed to meet in the conference room, but then someone told me the charge nurse is... Dana? And if you show up late she’ll eat you whole?”
“That’s true,” A woman said dryly from beside them, adjusting her badge. “But I think she likes fear, Shows respect.” She looked around at the group, a brow raised slightly as she continued walking, brushing out her maroon zip up.
Before Dennis could process that, a third figure cut into their loose triangle- fast, confident, unapologetic. “Okay, let’s get something straight.” The woman- tall, sharp-edged, with her hair pulled back tight, she snapped a piece of gum between her teeth. “If we’re all in this together, I’m not babysitting. And I’m not losing procedures to anyone slower than me.”
“Good morning to you too,” Anya muttered.
“Dr. Santos,” the woman introduced herself, not waiting for anyone to ask. “But you can call me Santos. Or not. Either way, I’m not here to make friends.” Dennis looked mildly terrified. Anya felt her hackles rise, instinctively defensive- not of herself, but of the nervous energy surrounding them. She knew the type. The people who had to come in swinging to hide the fact that they might not be able to stand still.
Still, Santos gave her a look- a once-over that felt more like a challenge than anything else.
Anya didn’t flinch. She met her gaze head-on.
Not here to make friends. Sure. The tension broke when the door at the end of the corridor swung open, and he walked in.
Dr. Jack Abbott.
The name had been in her packet. Staff attending. ER lead. Former trauma surgeon. Burned out, whispered the grapevine. Brilliant, muttered others.
But no one mentioned how tired he looked in person. Or how tall.
He paused just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes flicking across the room- assessing, cataloguing. His hair was a little unkempt, scrubs already wrinkled, like he’d slept in them. Or hadn’t slept at all. Would make sense, that being he was just being relieved of the night shift.
When his eyes landed on the group of new residents — her, Dennis, Santos, and Mel just adjacent — he gave the briefest nod.
His scrubs were bloodstained in places — faint, dried patches — and his ID badge swung crooked from one hip. His eyes were sunk deep, the color of worn denim, and as they scanned the group of new residents like a wall he’d have to climb again in a few hours, they landed on her.
On Anya.
And stuck.
Just for a second. A flicker.
Maybe she imagined it. But her spine straightened anyway.
Jack blinked- a slow, tired blink- and looked away, shifting past them toward the locker room. Not a word. Not a nod. Just presence, just exhaustion made flesh. Dennis leaned in and whispered, “Who was that?”
“Dr. Abbott,” Mel murmured, a note of reverence or caution — hard to say which. “Night shift attending.” Anya made a mental note of it. “Damn,” Santos muttered under her breath.
Anya didn’t respond. Her eyes lingered on the space he’d been, like his shadow left something behind. Because something in her had recognized him. Not his face — no. But the weight he carried. The way he moved like grief had a hand on his shoulder.
She knew that feeling intimately.
The door behind them opened again, this time with the energy of command.
Dr. Robby strode in like he was allergic to hesitation. Clipboard in one hand, he rubbed the back of his neck with the other, raising his brows slightly. “Alright,” he said, not even glancing up as he took stock of them. “Dennis Whitaker. Mel King. Anya Hayes. Trinity Santos.”
He finally looked up, and his tone shifted just slightly. Warm, but firm. “Welcome to The Pitt. You’ve landed in the most brutal trauma ER in the state. If you make it out of this year still wanting to be doctors, you’ll have earned it.”
Dennis audibly gulped.
Robby turned, waving them down the hall. “Come on. Orientation starts in Trauma Bay A. If you’re lucky, you’ll get thirty minutes of peace before someone codes.”
The others moved quickly. But Anya hesitated.
Her eyes flicked toward the breakroom- the cracked door, the faint hum of fluorescent light inside.
She thought she saw him again- Jack, seated now, elbows on the table, staring at nothing. Shoulders slumped. Like he’d left a piece of himself somewhere in the last 12 hours and wasn’t sure if it was worth finding again.
He looked up.
Their eyes met through the glass.
She didn’t smile. Neither did he.
But for a moment, something unspoken passed between them. A recognition. A mirror.
Then she turned and followed the others.