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Chapter Text

Peter Benton hadn’t expected to feel like this.

He had done dozens of hospital tours over the past year. He was part of a cross-country initiative led by a national task force to study emergency departments and trauma centers across America. The goal was simple: learn how the top hospitals managed their EDs and implement successful strategies back home. He had once stood at County General, toe-to-toe with surgeons, running trauma like a war zone. Now he was part observer, part consultant, part ghost himself.

Allegheny General hadn’t been on the itinerary.

A mix-up in scheduling. Originally, they were supposed to be in D.C., but a systems failure at that hospital diverted them last minute to Pittsburgh.

“Welcome to PTMC Emergency,” Gloria Underwood, the hospital’s Chief Medical Officer, announced with a tight smile. She was a polished woman in a tailored blazer and pearl earrings. “You’re about to see one of the most effective—and busiest—emergency departments on the East Coast. The staff here are…unique, but they get results.”

They followed her through the wide hallways and into the pit of the ED. It was loud. Controlled chaos. Fluorescent lighting washed the faces of overworked residents and under-rested nurses. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, coffee, and the coppery tang of blood.

Peter walked at the back of the group of visiting doctors, arms folded, his dark eyes scanning. He tried not to judge. Emergency medicine was ugly in most places. You couldn’t wrap it in a bow.

“Patient satisfaction is low,” Gloria continued. “That’s no secret. But their outcomes? Their trauma survival rate rivals Level 1 centers. They run like the military.”

That’s when Peter saw him.

A tall man, probably in his fifties, weaving through the chaos like it was choreography. Black scrubs, grey jacket half-zipped. A beard, just scruffy enough. Ears caught the light—he had hearing aids. He held a tablet in one hand and a coffee in the other. He leaned over to talk to a younger woman, smiling faintly, pointing to something on the screen. The woman—older, blonde, hair clipped up—smiled with a maternal softness as she adjusted the sleeve on his jacket.

Peter stopped walking. His breath caught.

No. It couldn’t be.

The beard, the height, the way he walked…

“Dr. Underwood,” Peter said suddenly, stepping up beside her. “Who’s that man?”

Gloria looked, followed his gaze, and smiled with what Peter thought was forced pride.

“Oh. That’s Dr. Michael Robinavitch. But we all just call him Robby. He’s our Chief Attending and runs the ED. Bit of a cowboy. Brilliant mind. Terrible bedside manner. He can diagnose an aortic dissection in the dark, but he won’t remember your birthday.”

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. “Robby?”

“Mmhm,” she continued. “Lost most of his memory after an incident in Africa with Doctors Without Borders. Has some cognitive gaps. PTSD. But he’s…remarkable. Honestly, he’s one of the best we’ve got.”

Peter stared. Carter.
It had to be.
Same height. Same face. Different name. Different eyes.

He was about to speak when two younger doctors approached.

“Hey,” said a tall man with a messy bun and cocky grin. “I’m Dr. Frank Langdon. Senior resident.”

A bald Black woman with kind eyes followed. “Dr. Heather Collins,” she said, nodding. “Welcome to the chaos.”

Gloria stepped forward. “Langdon, Collins—point out the nursing staff, would you?”

Langdon gestured around the room. “That’s Mateo—. He’s cranky before his fifth coffee. Princess is over there, she’s terrifying but kind. Jesse’s on trauma duty. Perlah’s somewhere in the back. She floats. And Dana—” he nodded toward the blonde woman Robby had spoken to—“she’s in charge. Period.”

“Dana Evans,” Heather added. “Head charge nurse. The whole place runs because of her.”

Peter’s heart thudded again.

“Dana?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” Langdon chuckled. “She’s like Robby’s mom. He listens to her even when he won’t listen to anyone else.”

Peter turned back toward Robby just as the man turned and began walking briskly toward the trauma bay, tablet in hand, not even glancing at the group.

Gloria scowled. “Dr. Robinavitch!” she called. “Come greet our guests!”

The man raised one hand in a wave and kept walking.

“Robby’s being Robby,” Dana said from across the nurses’ station, not even looking up from her charting. Her voice was warm, sarcastic.

Peter felt dizzy.

Gloria looked annoyed. “Dr. Abbot!” she called sharply.

A shorter man with silver hair turned from one of the beds. He had strong arms, sleeves pushed up, and cold, calculating eyes.

“Would you get your boy over here?”

Abbot’s jaw clenched. He gave Gloria a long, deadpan stare and said flatly, “No.” Then turned back to his patient.

Several nurses snorted with amusement. Peter noticed some of them glancing at Gloria with thinly veiled contempt.

Peter’s mouth was dry. “He… was in Africa?”

“Yes,” said Heather. “He doesn’t talk about it much. But it was bad. He was captured. Hurt badly. Had a traumatic brain injury. We don’t know much. Just that he used to be a whole different person.”

Peter barely heard her.

Carter.

Carter had gone to Africa. Had disappeared. And no one had heard from him again. Everyone thought he was dead. Including Peter.

But he wasn’t. He was here. Walking these halls with a prosthetic limp—no, that was the other man. That was Jack.

Peter glanced again and saw the man—Jack Abbot—heading down the hall toward Robby. He had a prosthetic leg, but moved like a former soldier. His hand brushed Robby’s shoulder as he caught up.

Peter saw Robby lean into Jack slightly. Like muscle memory. Like trust.

He had questions. A thousand. But before he could move, a trauma alert went off.

“TRAUMA BAY ONE. ETA TWO MINUTES. STABBING. MALE. MID-20s. CHEST WOUND. UNSTABLE.”

Robby’s voice cut across the room. Low, quick, and commanding. “Dana—prep one. Mateo, I need two units of O-neg ready. Langdon, Collins, Ellis—gloves on now. Samira, you’re with me.”

Like a conductor in an orchestra, everyone moved.

Dana pushed a gurney into place. Jesse and Mateo grabbed the crash cart. A med student dropped a tray and got barked at by Perlah.

The patient burst in on a stretcher. Pale, gasping, blood-soaked.

“Chest wound!” Langdon barked.

Robby was already beside him. “Left side, fourth intercostal. Hypotensive. Breath sounds?”

“Diminished on the left!” Samira called.

“Needle decompression,” Robby said. “Now.”

Collins moved fast. “28-gauge in. Pulse thready. Sats dropping.”

Robby leaned over, listening, eyes hyper-focused. “We’re not waiting. Crack his chest.”

“Open thoracotomy?” Ellis asked, voice tight.

“Yes,” Robby said, snapping gloves on. “Now.”

Peter watched, frozen. The way Robby moved. His technique. His voice.

Carter.

Even his trauma voice was the same. Calm, fierce, terrifyingly smart.

Blood sprayed. The young man on the table was dying. But Robby—Carter—had his hands in the man’s chest, massaging the heart, shouting orders.

“Abbot!” Robby called. “I need you!”

Jack was already there, gowned and gloved.

In the chaos, Peter stepped back, heart hammering.

He had to know.
He had to talk to Dana.
He had to talk to Carter.

But one thing was clear.

John Carter was alive.
And he didn’t remember anything.