E L L A R A

The clipboard slaps the counter like a gavel.

“Drills start now. If you’re late, you run laps. If you complain, you run more.”

Three staffers stare back at me with Asha, wide-eyed but game; Tomas, an ex-paramedic whose last boss apparently let him nap through night shifts; and Anya, who looks like she’d rather be on a beach massage table than in scrubs. They’re mine now. And I’m not letting Seraphine chew them up the way New York chewed me.

“Shift report forms are standardized,” I continue, clicking a pen. “Vitals logged every four hours. Emergency packs checked at dawn. If I catch one expired ampule or unlabeled med, you’re scrubbing every cabinet with a toothbrush.”

Tomas raises a hand, half-cocked. “Wait.. are we… Are we actually running laps?”

Asha hides a snort behind her palm. I arch an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. Because people die when you’re sloppy.”

Silence tightens the air, but I let it stretch. Fear isn’t cruelty, it’s a teacher. And this team? They need to learn fast.

Behind them, the glass doors slide open.

I don’t need to turn to know it’s him. Adrian’s presence is like a shift in air pressure that contains heat, and watchful silence. He doesn’t interrupt. Just lingers at the threshold, arms crossed, observing everything.

I force myself to keep going. “Today’s drill: anaphylaxis. You’ve got ninety seconds from exposure to airway compromise. If that doesn’t scare you, you’re not awake enough.”

Anya raises her hand, cautious. “Do we actually simulate a crash?”

“Yes,” I say. “On each other, if I have to.”

Asha hands me the emergency med dummy. “Give it hell, Doc.”

I grin, despite myself. “That’s the plan.”

I don’t look toward Adrian. But I feel it, the pulse of his approval, held back like a tide. He says nothing, and then he’s gone.

But it’s enough.

By midday, the clinic smells like sweat and adrenaline.

Asha calls the code. “Sim patient down with severe allergic reaction, known nut allergy. Time starts now!”

Tomas fumbles the EpiPen case. Anya trips over the crash cart wheel. I catch the oxygen mask before it hits the floor and snap, “Tomas, what’s your first move?”

He stares at me, mouth open.

“Don’t think. Act.”

He swallows. “Secure airway. Administer epinephrine. Elevate legs. Monitor vitals.”

“Then do it.”

The dummy lies limp, face plastic, but the scenario is real. We’re at a resort where peanut sauce shows up on every hors d’oeuvre tray. Seconds matter. Lives matter.

Anya gets the vitals cuff in place, but the numbers flash red. “BP’s dropping.”

“Epinephrine,” I say. “Now, Tomas.”

He hesitates, then plunges the trainer into the thigh.

“Good,” I say. “Pulse?”

“Rising,” Asha calls. “Still weak.”

I nod once. “You bought him five minutes. What’s next?”

“Transport to clinic. Monitor airway. Second dose if no improvement. Call evac,” Tomas says, steadier now.

I take a breath. “Reset. Again.”

We ran it six more times. I strip them down to instinct, rebuild them in muscle memory. Tomas stops flinching. Anya stops hesitating. Asha sharpens into steel under pressure, and I remember why I liked teaching med interns before the system broke me.

In the seventh round, Anya’s hands tremble as she hooks a saline line into the dummy’s arm. I crouch beside her, voice low.

“You okay?”

She blinks fast. “I lost someone. Last year. Anaphylaxis. We didn’t get the shot in time. I still see her face.”

I nod. “That fear? It’s not your enemy. It means you’re awake. And awake means we save the next one.”

Her breath stutters but steadies. She tapes the line in place and moves on.

I rise, wiping my hands on a towel. My scrubs are damp with humidity and urgency. My voice is hoarse.

But when Asha gives the next call—“Code blue, east beach simulation” they run like a team.

They run like they believe me.

And maybe that belief is how we start to win.

The breakroom smells like strong tea and warmed leftovers. I toss a chilled coconut water onto the table, followed by two plastic containers of pandan-seed energy bites I bribed from the kitchen staff.

“This is either a reward or a trap,” Tomas mutters, eyeing the container.

Asha pops a bite into her mouth without hesitation. “It’s both. Eat.”

We collapse into chairs, sweaty and buzzing with the kind of tension that only training adrenaline leaves behind. Anya peels her gloves off with a sigh. “I thought you were kidding about laps.”

“I never kid about prep,” I say, sipping my tea. “Bodies lie. Training doesn’t.”

Tomas leans back. “So… what made you trade ER trauma for paradise chaos?”

I stiffen. It’s not an unfair question but it cuts closer than I expect. I take another sip. “Have you ever tried to save a life and realize the system was rooting against you?”

Tomas nods, slowly. “More than once.”

“That,” I say. “I got tired of fighting bureaucracy while someone bled out.”

Anya’s voice is quiet. “Did someone die?”

“Yes,” I say. “More than one. And I couldn’t do it again. So I came here thinking it would be quieter.”

Asha snorts. “Welcome to paradise.”

The room breaks into a ripple of tired laughter. It feels… earned. Real. And when Asha lifts her drink in a half-toast, I find myself doing the same.

“To not let people die because of red tape,” she says.

“To better drills,” Tomas adds.

“To coconut bribes,” Anya mutters.

Our plastic bottles clink with a satisfying crack.

When I glance toward the clinic windows, I swear I see Adrian across the boardwalk. His shoulders squared, phone at his ear. Watching.

But he doesn’t interrupt.

And I don’t invite him in.

Not yet.

By the time I return to my desk, my inbox is a landmine of subject lines.

Vendor invoices. Supply restocks. One flagged email from Isabella titled Audit Recap – Excellent Progress.

But it’s the forwarded thread beneath it that stops me.

FROM: Adrian Valcrosse
TO: Board Safety Compliance / Marina Navarro
Subject: Updated Protocols – Effective Immediately

Attached is my entire training schematic and revised, annotated, and officially approved. Every drill we’ve run. Every supply order I begged for. Every measure I’ve argued for since I landed here.

No commentary. No request for thanks.

Just his initials at the bottom:

– A.V.

I stare at it longer than I should.

No calls. No confrontation. Just… validation.

Quiet, exacting approval in the only language he thinks I’ll trust is action. 

I scroll down, pulse tightening when I find his addendum in the forwarding note:

Let Dr. Quinn continue leading the rollout. She’s earned it.

There’s no flourish to the sentence. No fluff.

But my throat closes anyway.

I close the tab before I feel too much. Before I do something reckless, like smile.

Outside, the sky begins to shift in the late afternoon and the sun stains the boardwalk gold. Somewhere across the resort, Adrian is likely pacing another call, silencing another fire, shielding me without asking.

For once, I don’t reject the feeling. I just breathe.

And get back to work.

The second round of drills is underway when the door slams open hard enough to rattle the supply cabinet.

Marina strides in on dagger heels, clutching a printout like it’s a court summons. Her hair is perfectly slicked, her smile nowhere in sight.

“We have a problem,” she snaps, waving the page like a flag of war.

“Step out of the training zone,” I say, calm but clipped. “We’re mid-scenario.”

“You’re mid-lawsuit,” she fires back.

That freezes everyone. Tomas straightens, half-wrapped in gauze. Asha’s eyes flick to mine. I nod once in dismissal and they scatter like smoke, giving us space.

Marina slaps the paper onto the counter. “Investor alert. Arnold Chase. Multi-suite client. Major donor.”

The name makes my jaw tighten. I know that kind of money. The kind that expects immunity from consequences.

“He claims,” Marina continues, voice sharp, “that your ‘panic theatrics’ on the boardwalk cost him five bookings. His exact words: ‘No one wants to watch CPR at cocktail hour.’”

I scan the letter. Legal phrasing. Threats of liability. Words like emotional distress, guest safety illusion, unlicensed personnel.

My pulse doesn’t spike. My hands don’t shake.

I’ve seen real emergencies. This? This is politics in a silk suit.

“I was licensed before I got here,” I say flatly. “Still am. Still saving lives.”

“Tell that to our revenue reports,” Marina mutters.

“Tell it to the boy I pulled from the lagoon.”

Her mouth flattens. “Adrian’s handling it. But you should prepare for war.”

I fold the printout cleanly, then walk to the cabinet. Tape rips loud as I post it beside the Safety List like a new commandment.

“Let them sue,” I say. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“You have a lot to lose.”

“So do they,” I murmur. “Because I’m not the one who staged serenity and forgot the survival part.”

Marina’s expression hardens, but she doesn’t argue. She just steps back, assessing me like I’m a variable she didn’t calculate right.

She leaves without another word.

The clinic door hisses shut behind her.

I stare at the posted letter bright white against my handwritten list and let it burn into memory.

Fear is how they try to silence people like me.

But I’m not afraid.