The room exploded into chaos.
Trays clattered to the floor.
Metal instruments scattered and rang out as they hit the ground.
Glass shattered somewhere to my left.
An IV pole toppled with a loud metallic crash, the drip line snapping loose and whipping through the air.
Surgical drapes tore as bodies collided with them, fabric ripping under the strain of movement and panic.
Alarms began to scream.
Sharp. Piercing.
And then—a man in a white coat appeared in the doorway.
A doctor.
His eyes were wide behind thin-framed glasses, his face draining of color as he took in the scene.
For one second—he froze.
Then—he turned and ran.
Shouting for security.
My breathing came in harsh, uneven gasps.
I stood in the center of the wreckage.
Chest heaving.
Blood dripping.
From my lip.
From the deep cut above my eyebrow.
From my knees.
My blouse—once neat, once controlled—now hung torn at the shoulder, fabric shredded and stained.
Blood dripped from my chin.
From my hairline.
From places I didn’t even have time to identify.
Every breath burned.
Every inhale felt like dragging glass into my lungs.
The double doors slammed open again.
Hard. Violent.
Too many.
