do not perceive me @laraisoncall - Tumblr Blog

lucky number seven

summary: The entire hospital fears Brendon Park. Except you. You can steal his coffee, order him around, tease him all day, and tell him he’s being an ass. Nobody understands why he listens until they discover you met him before — back when he was struggling, unknown, and not yet “Park the Shark.” 9.9k

The scent of hospital-grade disinfectants and stale dark roast coffee was the same in Pittsburgh as it was in New York, but the air here felt heavier, thick with the damp heat of an impending late-spring thunderstorm.

You adjusted the collar of your black scrubs, checking your reflection in the small, slightly warped mirror of the staff locker room.

Undeniably, the move had been a shock to your system. A week ago, you had packed your entire life into a single U-Haul, leaving behind a brownstone in Brooklyn, a prestigious fellowship, and a man who had successfully managed to hollow out your chest over the course of three years.

“You’re just never there, babe,” Richard had said, his voice dripping with that smooth, corporate condescension you had somehow mistaken for maturity when you first met him.

He had been standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your downtown apartment, not even looking at you. “I need someone who actually shows up for dinner, not someone who prioritizes a bunch of strangers over her own relationship. Look at you. You’re undeniably beautiful, you’re brilliant, you have the whole world handing you whatever you want—but you’re empty. Your job is your real partner. I’m just the guy holding the ring until you realize you don’t have room in your life for a real man.”

That last sentence had been the final, brutal blow—the one that made you slide the engagement ring off your finger, drop it onto the marble kitchen island, and tell him to get the hell out. You weren’t going to let a man who wanted a trophy wife make you feel guilty for saving lives. So, you chose yourself. You chose your career. You chose Pittsburgh.

The memory still tasted like ash, but as you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, you reminded yourself of who you actually were. You were young, you were an incredibly talented Emergency Medicine attending, and despite Richard’s parting attempts to dismantle your self-esteem, the appreciative glances you’d received in the hospital corridors over the last seven days proved you hadn’t lost an ounce of your charm or your looks.

You were talented, you were charismatic, and you were finally free.

Pushing through the double doors into the main hub of the Emergency Department, you were immediately greeted by the low, constant hum of the pit.

"Morning, superstar," called out Dr. Robby, the Chief of the ED. He was a salt-pepper haired genial man whose eyes always held a paternal warmth. He was leaning against the central tracking board, a tablet balanced on his forearm. "How's the transition treating you? No one’s driven you back to the turnpike yet?"

"Not yet, Chief," you said with an easy, radiant smile that made a passing intern nearly trip over an IV pole. "The pace is good. The staff is sharp. I think I'm actually starting to figure out which elevator leads to the cafeteria without ending up in the morgue."

"That's a victory in week one," Dr. Frank Langdon chimed in, stepping up to the desk. Langdon was a senior resident, highly excellent, effortlessly charming, and currently sporting a grin that suggested he’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think of an excuse to talk to you. "If you ever need a personal guided tour of the city's better culinary establishments, Doc, my schedule is surprisingly flexible for an R4."

"I appreciate the offer, Dr. Langdon," you replied, your tone perfectly balanced between warm collegiality and a gentle, unmistakable boundary. "But I think I'll stick to learning the hospital grid before I venture out into the wild."

Langdon gave a good-natured shrug, his eyes lingering on your smile for just a beat too long before he walked away. He wasn't the first.

Over the past week, a steady stream of eligible bachelors from cardiology, neurology, and general surgery had suddenly found reasons to consult or simply wander down to the ED, all of them eager to introduce themselves to the gorgeous new attending everyone was talking about. You had politely, flawlessly deflected every single dinner invitation. Your heart was under construction, and frankly, you didn't have the bandwidth for more corporate slickness.

"Don't let them hound you," a gravelly voice said from behind the terminal. Dr. Abbot, the night shift attending who was currently finishing up his hand-off notes, looked up with a tired but deeply kind smile. "They're like seagulls when a new ship docks. You've been a breath of fresh air around here, truly. The night shift reports have been immaculate since you took over the swing."

"Thanks, Abbot. Get some sleep. You look like you're walking in a dream."

"More like a nightmare, but I'm heading out now. Good luck today," Abbot said, gathering his things with a grateful nod.

You walked over to the main nurse's station, where Dana Evans, the legendary charge nurse of the PTMC trauma bays, was currently terrorizing a supply representative over a late shipment of rapid infusers. Dana was tough, deeply competent, sarcastic to a fault, and fiercely protective of her clinical space.

She slammed the phone down, took one look at you, and her fierce expression softened into a wry smirk. "Look at you, still looking like a shampoo commercial after five consecutive shifts. What's your secret, Doc? Genetic superiority or just high-quality concealer?"

"Good moisturizer and a complete lack of a personal life, Dana," you joked, leaning against the counter.

"Well, keep that shield up. The vultures are circling," Dana said, gesturing subtly toward a group of internal medicine residents pretending to study a chart nearby. "They aren't used to an attending who can run a level-one trauma without breaking a sweat or looking like they slept in a ditch. Speaking of which, you've got Trinity Santos on your team today. Keep her on a leash."

Right on cue, R2 Trinity Santos marched up to the desk, her jaw set, her eyes burning with the fierce, highly competitive ambition she was already famous for. She was sharp-tongued and possessed a brash confidence that bordered on terrifying for the medical students.

"Hey, Doc," Trinity said, dropping a clipboard onto the counter. "Bay 3 is prepped for the chest tube evaluation. I've already reviewed the films from last night. I can perform the exchange myself, no supervision required."

Before you could answer, R3 Melissa King drifted over. Melissa was empathetic and highly intelligent, possessing an incredible emotional perceptiveness, but she was also humanly, beautifully awkward. She was clutching a cup of tea like a security blanket. "Um, actually, Dr. Santos, the patient in Bay 3 specifically asked for a female doctor who 'doesn't shout at them,' so maybe... maybe we let the attending take the lead? Not that you shout! You just... speak with high velocity."

Trinity rolled her eyes. "It's efficiency, King. If the patient wants a lifestyle chat, they can call a therapist. We need the bed."

"Let's compromise," you said, your calm, cool voice instantly cutting through the resident bickering. "Trinity, you'll perform the procedure, but I will be in the room, and you will speak to the patient at a volume that doesn't suggest an air raid. Melissa, I want you on the ultrasound for the subsequent cardiac window checks. Deal?"

Both residents nodded—Trinity with a tight, respectful click of her jaw, and Melissa with a sigh of relief.

Just then, Dennis Whitaker, an R1 who perpetually looked like he was being hunted by an apex predator, stumbled toward the desk, nearly dropping a handful of specimen tubes. "Uh, Doc? MS4 Victoria Javadi is in the hallway... she's trying to explain the entire coagulation cascade to a patient with a minor laceration, and the patient is crying because they think they have leukemia now."

You let out a soft laugh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. Victoria Javadi was a brilliant medical student, but her social skills were still in the embryonic stage. "Dennis, breathe. Go tell Victoria that the cascade is beautiful, but the patient just needs three standard sutures and a lollipop. Then take over the closure for her."

"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!" Dennis scrambled away like a startled rabbit.

Dana Evans shook her head, an amused grin on her face. "You're a saint, Doc. Seriously. If this were the upper floors, they'd have eaten those kids alive by now. Especially if they wandered into the penthouse."

"The penthouse?" you asked, charting a quick note on the computer.

"Ortho," Trinity Santos answered, her voice dropping into a tone that was unusually reverent for her. "Specifically, the Chief of Ortho. Dr. Park. They call him 'The Shark.' He’s a total machine. Aggressive confidence, complete clinical dominance, and if an intern breathes out of rhythm in his OR, he bans them for a month. He’s completely terrifying."

You frowned slightly. Park? The name was common enough, but a strange, distant memory twitched in the back of your mind. No. It couldn't be. The only Park you knew from medical school was someone who couldn't even look a Starbucks barista in the eye without stuttering, let alone terrify an entire Level 1 trauma center.

"He doesn't have emotions," Melissa King added with a slight shudder. "I saw him look at a shattered femur last week like it was a fun puzzle, and when the resident missed a bone fragment on the pre-op, he just stared at them until they started sweating through their scrubs. Literally. He’s like an apex predator."

You smiled slightly, shaking your head at the hospital lore. Every major trauma center had one—the legendary, unyielding surgeon who ruled their department with an iron fist.

"Well, let's hope the Shark stays in his deep water today. We have enough to deal with down here."

The peace didn't last. Forty minutes later, the red courtesy phone at the trauma desk began its shrill, rhythmic wail. Dana picked it up on the first ring, her sharp eyes scanning the room as her expression instantly shifted into high-alert mode.

"Copy that. ETA three minutes. Give us both bays," Dana barked, slamming the receiver down. She looked directly at you. "Multi-vehicle collision on I-376. Inbound are two criticals. First up is a twenty-four-year-old male, unrestrained driver, ejected from the vehicle. Unstable vitals, massive pelvic disruption, obvious open deformities to the lower extremities. Second is a passenger, entrapped for thirty minutes, severe crush injuries."

"Alright, let's move!" you commanded, your voice carrying that effortless, magnetic authority that instantly pulled the chaotic ED into a tight, synchronized orbit. "Trinity, you're with me in Bay 1. Dennis, get the rapid infuser spiked. Melissa, I want you on airway with Dr. Garcia from Trauma Surgery. Victoria!" you called out to the medical student who had just appeared. "Stand back, observe, and do not recite textbooks unless I ask you to. Let's go!"

The doors to the ambulance bay flew open with a violent crash, the sound of rain and roaring sirens flooding the room. The paramedics rolled in, their faces grim, their forearms strained as they kept manual pressure on a mountain of bloody gauze.

"Patient is responsive only to deep pain!" the medic yelled over the din. "Systolic's been hovering in the low seventies. We got two lines of wide-open normal saline going. He’s got an obvious unstable pelvic binder on, but his left leg is practically pointing backward!"

"On my count, over to the trauma gurney," you ordered, stepping into the slot at the head of the bed. "One, two, three, shift!"

The patient was transferred in a flurry of movement. The smell of copper, road rash, and damp earth filled Bay 1.

"Trinity, check breath sounds. Dennis, get those lines hooked up to the blood products now!" your voice was a cool, steady anchor amidst the storm. You ran your hands expertly over the patient's abdomen and pelvis, feeling the terrifying, unhinged crepitus of a shattered pelvic ring. "He's bleeding out into his retroperitoneum. We need an immediate pelvic binder tight, and call the blood bank for a massive transfusion protocol."

Dr. Yolanda Garcia, the attending trauma surgeon, strode into the bay, her eyes taking in the scene in half a second. "He's got a rigid abdomen, Doc. We might need to ex-lap him right here if we can't stabilize this pressure."

"It's the pelvis, Yolanda," you argued, your hands steady as you secured the mechanical binder, pulling it taut until the lock clicked. "Look at the left lower extremity. The femoral artery is compromised from a massive orthopedic distortion. We need an immediate ortho consult for external fixation and vascular exploration. Dana! Who's the on-call ortho attending?"

"It's the Shark's service today," Dana said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "Paging him now."

"Tell him to get his ass down here in thirty seconds or he's going to be operating on a corpse!" Trinity Santos yelled, her competitive adrenaline spiking as she tried to maintain an airway window.

"Watch the tone, Santos," you said mildly, not looking up as you began an ultrasound of the patient's heart. "But she's right, Dana. Make it a stat page."

The minutes stretched like taffy. The patient's blood pressure ticked up slightly with the first two units of O-negative, but the left leg was cold, pulseless, and pale—a ticking clock of ischemia.

"Where the hell is Ortho?" Garcia muttered, her hands hovering over her surgical tray.

Suddenly, the automatic doors of the trauma bay didn't just open; they seemed to part out of sheer deference. A tall, broad-shouldered man in dark green scrubs and a black surgical cap strode into the room. His presence was immediate, an oppressive wave of absolute focus and aggressive confidence that caused Dennis to instinctively step backward into a corner.

He didn't look at anyone's face. He walked straight to the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the mangled left leg of the patient.

"What do we have?" his voice was deep, gravelly, and entirely devoid of warmth. It was a voice designed to cut through noise and command absolute obedience.

"Multi-vehicle MVC, severe pelvic ring disruption, open left femur fracture with absent distal pulses," Trinity Santos rattled off, her voice actually trembling slightly as she stood before the legendary surgeon. "We’ve placed a binder, but the limb is ischemic."

The tall surgeon reached down, his large, powerful hands moving with an terrifyingly precise efficiency as he evaluated the injury. "The binder is decent, but the traction is wrong. Who placed this?"

"I did," you said, stepping around the side of the bed to face him directly.

Dr. Brendon Park looked up from the injury, his sharp, dark eyes locking onto yours for the very first time.

The entire trauma bay seemed to lose its oxygen.

The man standing before you was a towering specimen of clinical perfection. His shoulders were broad enough to fill the doorway, his jawline sharp, his posture commanding and unyielding. He was the epitome of a brilliant, intimidating Chief of Orthopedic Surgery.

But as you stared into those familiar, dark eyes, the hospital room completely vanished.

You weren't looking at "The Shark."

You were looking at Brendon. Your Brendon.

The lanky, socially awkward, intensely brilliant boy from medical school who used to trip over his own shoelaces and hide in the back row of anatomy lectures. The boy whose shoulders used to slouch because he hadn't yet figured out how to carry the weight of his own genius. The boy whose lips had tasted like cheap beer and desperate, beautiful promises under a starry Ohio sky seven years ago.

Brendon froze. The absolute, unshakeable confidence that defined his entire reputation cracked in a fraction of a second. His wide, expressive eyes dilated, his lips parting slightly as a sudden, breathless shock washed over his features.

He whispered your name, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of its gravelly, intimidating edge. He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost, his hands hovering mid-air above the patient's leg.

"Brendon," you breathed, your cool, professional composure momentarily slipping as a wave of intense, buried yearning slammed into your chest.

For three long seconds, the busiest trauma bay in Pittsburgh was completely silent. The nurses, the residents, and the trauma surgeon stared at the two of you in absolute, slack-jawed bewilderment. The terrifying "Shark" was looking at the new ED attending like a man who had just found water in the middle of a desert, and you were looking at him with a vulnerability that none of them had ever witnessed from the unflappable new doctor.

"Uh..." Dennis Whitaker squeaked from the corner, breaking the spell.

Brendon blinked, his wall of clinical steel instantly slamming back into place, though his eyes remained fiercely, desperately anchored to yours. He cleared his throat, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath.

"Right," he said, his voice deep again, but there was a subtle tremor in it that only someone who knew him inside out could detect. "The leg needs immediate reduction and an ex-fix in the OR. If we don't restore perfusion in ten minutes, he loses the limb. Is she stable for transport, Doctor?"

He called you Doctor. The professionalism was a shield, but his eyes were pleading with you.

"Vitals are holding after the second unit," you replied, your voice snapping back into its signature, charismatic rhythm, though your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "He's all yours, Dr. Park. Take him."

"Santos, Whitaker, with me," Brendon commanded, turning on his heel. "We're going straight to OR 4. Move!"

The residents scrambled to unlock the gurney, flying out of the room behind him.

As Brendon reached the threshold of the door, he stopped for a second, turning his head just enough to catch your eye one last time before disappearing into the corridor.

Dana Evans stepped up beside you, her eyes wide as she looked from the doorway back to you. "What the hell was that?"

You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for seven years, leaning against the central desk. "That... was an old friend."

By the time your shift wound down to its final hour, the storm outside had broken, a steady, rhythmic rain drumming against the frosted glass of the emergency department.

The adrenaline of the trauma had faded, leaving behind a profound, aching hollow in your chest that you hadn't felt since you left medical school.

You sat in the quiet doctors' lounge, a lukewarm cup of terrible coffee cradled between your hands, your mind entirely hijacked by the past.

You had met him during your second year of medical school at Ohio State.

You had been one of the "cool girls" in your class—undeniably brilliant, managing to effortlessly ace your pathology exams while still maintaining a vibrant social life, going out to bars, and living your early twenties to the absolute fullest. You had a status to uphold. You were charming, pretty, and effortlessly popular.

Then came the infamous mid-semester house party.

You had gone because you desperately needed to unwind, to forget the crushing weight of textbooks and clinical rotations for just a few hours. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and loud music.

And that’s where you first saw him.

Brendon had been dragged there by his roommate, he was sitting in the corner of a crowded kitchen, looking completely miserable, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that practically swallowed his lanky, six-foot-two frame. He was fumbling with a red solo cup, staring intensely at the floor, praying to whatever deity was listening that no one would try to talk to him. He was painfully shy, socially awkward, and completely out of his depth.

You had found him absolutely adorable.

Later in the night, a rowdy group of drunken surgery track students forced everyone into a circle for a classic, juvenile game of "Seven Minutes in Heaven." The beer bottle spun on the carpet, slowly losing speed, until the neck pointed straight at you.

The crowd cheered. You smiled, tossing your hair back, ready for whoever it was.

Then, they spun the bottle for the guy.

It landed on Brendon.

The room erupted into groans and laughter. Brendon looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were bright red. He clumsily stood up, his long limbs awkwardly adjusting as he was pushed into the small, dark coat closet under the stairs with you.

“Good luck, babe, he might faint if you touch him!” your friend had yelled.

The door clicked shut, plunging both of you into darkness, save for the faint sliver of light beneath the door.

"Um... hi," Brendon had squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He pressed his back firmly against the wall of the closet, as far away from you as physically possible.

"Hi," you had laughed softly, stepping closer to him. The scent of his clean laundry and nervous sweat filled the small space. "You know," you said, your tone light, cool, and teasing, "you don't look like you're in heaven, Brendon. You look like you're on death row."

"I... I don't really do parties," he stammered, staring at the ceiling. "And I... I really don't think we should do this."

You blinked, surprised. "Do what? Kiss?"

"Yeah," Brendon muttered, his face burning hot even in the dark. "I mean, you're... you're you. You're popular, and you're really pretty, and everyone knows you. And I’m... I’ve only ever kissed my high school girlfriend, okay? Once. And it was bad. I'll just embarrass myself. So... we don't have to. Let’s just stay on opposite sides of the closet.”

You had been surprised. Most guys in med school were arrogant, overflowing with unearned ego. You had found his honesty incredibly endearing. You actually wanted to kiss him. You had wanted to see what those nervous lips felt like.

But you respected his boundaries, and more importantly, you had a reputation to uphold. If you walked out of that closet and told everyone that the awkward, lanky guy had rejected kissing the coolest girl in the class, your ego would never recover.

"Alright," you had said, a mischievous spark igniting in your chest. "We won't kiss. But we have to make them think we did. Otherwise, they'll never let us live it down."

Brendon looked relieved. "How do we do that?"

"Mess up your hair," you commanded smoothly. You reached up, your fingers running through his thick, messy dark hair, intentionally rumpling it. Brendon went entirely rigid, his breath hitching as your fingers brushed his scalp. You grabbed the lapels of his oversized hoodie, shaking them, making a rustling noise, while you loudly sighed and threw your back against the closet wall, making a soft thud. You even let out a breathless, fake moan that made Brendon exhale a strangled, terrified gasp.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, his face burning in the dark.

“Shh, they’re listening,” you giggled.

"Perfect," you smirked. "But listen, Park. I'm saving your reputation out there, and I'm protecting my own. So, you owe me. Big time."

Brendon blinked in confusion. "A debt?"

"A debt of absolute servitude," you had declared dramatically. "From now on, you buy my late night coffee. You are going to be my personal driver when it rains. And you are going to be my mandatory study buddy, because I know you're secretly a genius who makes perfect flashcards. Deal?”

Brendon had stared at you through the dark, a slow, incredibly endearing smile finally breaking across his face. "Okay. Deal."

That silly party game had been the catalyst for the most beautiful, chaotic friendship of your life.

Brendon had kept his word with terrifying precision. He became your shadow, your defender, and your personal assistant. The hospital staff at your school clinic used to laugh watching the two of you. You would sit at the library tables, completely exhausted, and bark orders at him like a spoiled queen, and he would just grin and fulfill them.

“Park! I need a venti iced caramel macchiato with exactly two pumps of vanilla, and if it’s warm, I’m giving you the most complicated cases on our next quiz,” you’d yell across the student lounge. And twenty minutes later, he’d return, breathless, holding the perfect cup.

“Park, my car is making a noise like a dying cat. I need a ride to my 4:00 AM shift,” you’d text him at midnight. And at 3:45 AM, his beat-up Honda Civic would be idling outside your apartment, the heater already blasting because he knew you hated the cold.

The peak of your comedic tyranny had occurred during your internal medicine rotation. You had unexpectedly started your period during a twelve-hour shift, and the hospital supply closet was completely bare of anything useful. You had called him in a panic.

“Brendon. I need you to go to the pharmacy right now. Get me a box of Tampax Pearl. Regular absorbency. Do not get the generic brand, or I will end our friendship.”

An hour later, Brendon had sneaked into the back of the ward, his face bright red, holding a brown paper bag like it contained active explosives. He had handed it to you, coughing nervously. “I... I didn't know what absorbency meant, so I bought one of every box they had. The cashier looked at me like I was a pervert.” You had laughed so hard you almost cried, pulling him into a fierce hug right there in the hallway.

But slowly, beautifully, the surface-level banter had faded into something deeper. You began to see the brilliant mind beneath his awkward exterior. He was the only one who understood the crushing, suffocating anxiety of trying to be perfect in a field that demanded infallibility. You would sit on the floor of his messy apartment, surrounded by open textbooks, talking until the sun came up—not about medicine, but about your fears, your childhoods, the things that kept you awake at night.

He became your anchor.

Slowly, under your warmth and confidence, Brendon began to bloom. His lanky frame filled out as he started lifting weights to handle the physical demands of orthopedic surgery interest. He grew taller, his shoulders broader, his confidence slowly blooming under your constant, fierce encouragement. You had built him up. You had told him every single day that he was going to be the greatest surgeon this country had ever seen.

And then, during the final week before graduation, the tension had finally snapped.

You had been sitting on the hood of his car, looking out over the city lights. He had turned to you, his new, broad frame towering over you, his eyes burning with a confidence he had stolen directly from your belief in him. He had reached out, his large hands cupping your face, and he had kissed you.

It wasn't the awkward kiss of a boy. It was a kiss full of 2 years of unsaid words, full of desperation, yearning, and promises that tore at your soul. You had clung to him, your cheeks wet with tears, knowing that you had fell completely, deeply in love with him, and he was completely, utterly devoted to you.

But medical school is a meat grinder. By your final year, the pressure reached a boiling point. You were placed in different clinical rotations at entirely different hospitals across the city. You were working eighty-hour weeks, collapsing into sleep the moment you got home. The coffee dates stopped. The late-night study sessions vanished.

The final, crushing blow came on Match Day. You opened your envelope to find you had matched into an ultra-competitive emergency medicine residency in New York. Brendon opened his to find he had matched into an elite orthopedic surgery residency in California.

The distance, the exhaustion, the terrifying reality of residency loomed over you both. And on that rainy day at the airport, unable to face the agony of a long-distance relationship while drowning in intern year, you had mutually, heartbreakingly let each other go.

You remembered the tear-stained cheeks. The hugs that felt like they were trying to fuse your ribs together. And the kisses—god, the kisses—that were full of promises you both desperately wanted to keep, but ultimately couldn't. “We’ll find each other,” he had whispered into your hair. “I’ll come find you, baby.”

And then, life happened. Years passed. You met your douchebag ex-fiancé.

And Brendon became the "Shark."

The doors to the doctors' lounge flew open, shattering your reverie.

Dennis sinks against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Oh my god. I thought he was going to murder me for leaving the drill bits.”

"He's a psycho," Trinity Santos huffs, straightening her lab coat defensively. "He thinks he owns this entire hospital just because he’s a prodigy. Did you see the way he looked at everyone? He’s completely heartless."

You stand there, quietly hooking your stethoscope around your neck, a brilliant, knowing smirk playing on your lips.

Heartless? If only they knew.

Over the next few weeks, a massive, utterly baffling phenomenon takes over the halls of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

The entire hospital fears Dr. Brendon Park. The nurses warn new interns not to look him directly in the eye. The residents tremble when his pager number flashes on their screens. He is an unstoppable, ruthless force of surgical perfection.

Except when it comes to you.

It starts on a chaotic Tuesday morning. The ED is overflowing, and Brendon has been down in the bays for three hours helping reduce a complex posterior hip dislocation. He is standing at the central nursing station, looking absolutely exhausted but radiating pure, unadulterated venom as he berates Zach Torres, the senior Cardiology resident.

"If your department can't clear this patient for the OR within the next ten minutes, Torres, I will personally wheel him up myself and write the clearance under your name," Brendon growls, his broad chest looming over the senior resident. "Don't waste my time with unnecessary echoes."

Zach, usually highly excellent and charismatic, is sweating through his white coat. "Dr. Park, we just need to ensure—"

Suddenly, you stroll up to the desk, looking radiant and completely relaxed. Without saying a word, you reach out, snatch the tall, steaming cup of artisanal dark roast coffee right out of Brendon’s hand, and take a long, satisfied sip.

The entire nursing station goes dead silent. Dana Evans stops typing, her jaw literally dropping. Victoria Javadi, who was standing nearby carrying charts, gasps softly, grabbing Dennis Whitaker’s arm in sheer terror. They are all waiting for the "Shark" to turn around and rip your head off.

Instead, Brendon stops mid-sentence. He slowly turns his head to look down at you.

The terrifying, icy glare completely evaporates, replaced by an expression of pure, exasperated fondness that none of the staff has ever witnessed.

"You're drinking my coffee," Brendon says, his voice dropping from a roar to a quiet, familiar rumble. "Again."

"You order too much espresso, Park. It’s making you cranky," you say smoothly, handing him back the half-empty cup. You reach out, your hand casually pressing against his broad chest, physically pushing the feared Chief of Orthopedic Surgery back half a step. "And stop bullying the cardiologists. Zach is doing his job. You’re being an ass."

Zach Torres stares at you like you are a goddess descended from the heavens.

Brendon sighs, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips threatening to turn into a smile. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking less like a ruthless surgeon and more like a tired boy. "He's taking too long."

"Go sit down in your office and rest for twenty minutes before your next case," you order him playfully, tapping your clipboard against his arm. "Doctor’s orders. Move it, or I'll make you buy me tampons again."

Brendon’s ears turn a violent shade of pink. He clears his throat, glances at the stunned residents, and mutters, "Fine. Ten minutes."

He turns and walks away toward the elevator, completely submissive to your command.

Langdon blinks, utterly bewildered. "What... what just happened? Did you just hypnotize the Shark?"

You laugh, taking another sip of your own water. "No, Frank. He just needs a Snickers bar and a nap."

Dana Evans leans over the counter, staring at you with intense, analytical eyes. "Doc... what kind of voodoo magic do you possess? Nobody talks to Park like that. Nobody. Last month a general surgery attending tried to tell him he was being an ass, and Park almost threw him into a linen cart."

"We just have a history, Dana," you say with a wink, walking away to check on a patient.

But it doesn't stop there. The teasing and the dynamic between you two becomes the primary source of entertainment and gossip for the entire medical center.

A week later, you are up in the main OR tracking a trauma patient. Brendon is in OR 3, finishing up a grueling, six-hour spinal reconstruction. He is furious because the equipment tech brought the wrong size pedicle screws, and his booming voice can be heard echoing through the sterile hallway, terrifying the scrub nurses.

You walk straight into the scrub room, pop the door open with your elbow, and look inside. "Park! Shut up!"

The entire OR freezes.

"You're vibrating at a frequency that's giving me a headache from across the hall," you call out, completely unfazed by the sterile environment. "Use the alternative screws and stop throwing a tantrum. You're a big boy."

Brendon looks up through his surgical loupes. The entire room holds its breath, expecting him to banish you from the surgical floor. Instead, he just lets out a heavy breath, his broad shoulders dropping. "The alternative screws have a wider thread pitch, Doc."

"Then adjust your torque and stop crying about it," you reply cheerfully. "I’ll see you at hand-offs."

"Unbelievable," Brendon mutters under his breath, but the anger completely leaves his voice. He looks at his scrub nurse, his tone entirely calm now. "Let's get the alternative tray, please."

The staff is utterly flabbergasted.

Later that evening, the Pittlings are sitting in the cafeteria, desperately trying to deconstruct the mystery.

"I'm telling you, she must have dirt on him," Trinity insists, stabbing a fork into her salad with fierce competitiveness. "She probably knows about a malpractice suit, or she caught him doing something illegal. There is no logical reason why a brutal chief of surgery lets a newly transferred ED attending push him around like a puppy."

"No, it's not dirt," King says softly, her highly perceptive nature taking over. She smiles, staring into her soup. "Did you see his face when she took his coffee? He didn't look mad at all. He looked... happy. Like he was finally breathing. I think they knew each other before. Like, way before."

"Before?" Victoria asks. "Like... before residency? Back when he was a nobody? But Dr. Park was never a nobody, he's a prodigy!"

"Everyone was unknown once, Victoria," Melissa points out wisely.

The bubble popped on a chaotic Friday night.

The weather had turned violent, a severe thunderstorm rolling over Pittsburgh, causing a massive pile-up on the Fort Duquesne Bridge. The ED was under siege. Every single trauma bay was full, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of antiseptic.

You were in Bay 2, dealing with a twenty-two-year-old female patient who had been crushed in the driver’s seat of her compact car. Her status was critical, deteriorating by the second.

“Vitals are dropping!” Victoria called out, her voice tight with panic. “BP is 60 over 30! Heart rate is spiking to 160! She’s slipping into profound hemorrhagic shock!”

You were standing at the patient’s side, your mind racing through the differentials. She had massive internal bleeding, but her abdomen was firm, and her pelvic X-ray showed a severe, unstable "open-book" pelvic fracture. The blood was pooling in her retroperitoneal space.

“We need to bind this pelvis, now!” you shouted over the noise. “Dennis, get the binder!”

“We’re out of binders!” Dennis yelled back, his voice cracking as he rummaged through the supply cart. “The previous traumas took the last ones from central supply, they’re fabricating more now!”

“Fuck!” you cursed. The patient’s monitor began to beep erratically.

“She’s going into PEA!” Trinity Santos called out, her hand flying to the patient’s carotid artery. “No pulse! Starting compressions!”

You looked at the monitor, then at the patient’s pale face. You were out of options. The blood transfusion wasn't keeping up. The pelvis was wide open, acting like a massive, bleeding cavern that was draining her life force. If you didn't close that pelvic ring immediately, she would die on this table within two minutes. You couldn't wait for surgery. You couldn't wait for a binder.

A reckless, insane, completely unorthodox idea flared in your mind. It was a technique you had read about once in a military medicine journal—a desperate, high-risk field maneuver used in combat zones when standard equipment was unavailable. It was highly reckless, completely unauthorized by hospital protocol, and could permanently damage the patient’s internal organs or nerves if done wrong.

But it was the only chance she had.

“Trinity, stop compressions,” you commanded, your voice turning to absolute ice.

“What? Doc, we need to keep perfusion—”

“STOP. COMPRESSIONS!” you roared, a rare flash of raw, commanding power echoing through the bay. Trinity instantly froze, pulling her hands away.

You stepped onto the step-stool at the side of the bed. You looked down at the patient’s fractured, unstable hips. Without a binder, you had to use manual, extreme counter-traction and internal fixation using whatever you had.

You grabbed a heavy, thick cotton hospital sheet from the bottom shelf. You quickly threaded it under the patient’s lower back, aligning it with the greater trochanters.

“Dennis, grab that end of the sheet,” you ordered. “When I say go, I want you to pull with everything you have. We are going to manually crush this pelvic ring back together using the sheet, and then I am going to lock it down using a surgical clamp from the chest tray.”

“Doctor, that’s... that’s completely non-standard!” Mel stammered, her eyes wide with terror. “The sheer force could transect the femoral nerve if the bone fragments shift wrong! It’s too dangerous!”

“She’s already dead!” you snapped. “Pull, Dennis! Go!”

You and Dennis pulled the sheet with brutal, immense physical force, twisting the heavy fabric against each other, forcing the patient’s shattered pelvic bones to slam back together by sheer tension. You felt the sickening crunch of bone shifting beneath the flesh.

The patient’s body jolted. Holding the immense tension of the sheet with one white-knuckled hand, you reached for a massive, heavy-duty Kocher forceps from the emergency thoracotomy tray and clamped the twisted sheet tightly against the patient’s skin, locking the makeshift binder under extreme, crushing pressure.

“Resume compressions!” you shouted.

Trinity jumped back on the chest. Within three cycles, the monitor beeped.

A rhythm emerged. Weak, thready, but stable.

“Pulses are back,” Victoria breathed, looking at you like you were either a god or a lunatic. “BP is... 90 over 50. It’s holding.”

You stepped down from the stool, your hands shaking from the sheer physical exertion, your scrubs soaked in sweat. You had done it. The reckless, insane technique had closed the space and stopped the catastrophic bleeding. You had saved her life.

The automatic doors slammed open.

Brendon strode into the bay, flanked by two orthopedic residents. He had received the page for an unstable pelvic fracture and had rushed down from the OR. He took one look at the patient, then his eyes dropped to the makeshift sheet-and-clamp setup crushed around her hips.

He froze. His face went entirely pale, then flushed into a deep, terrifying crimson. The "Shark" didn't just return; he exploded.

“What the hell is this?” Brendon’s voice thundered, vibrating the glass walls of the trauma bay. The residents shrank back.

“It’s a makeshift binder, Dr. Park,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, though the adrenaline was still pumping through your system. “We were out of standard binders, she lost pulses from hemorrhagic shock, and I had to close the ring.”

“With a sheet and a chest clamp?” Brendon marched up to the bed, his eyes flashing with a raw, furious brilliance. He looked at you, his voice dripping with venomous, professional outrage. “Are you completely out of your mind? Do you have any idea what you just did? You could have severed her internal iliac artery! You could have shredded her sacral plexus! You took a blind, reckless gamble with a patient’s life!”

The room went dead silent. The residents didn't dare breathe. It was the first time the hospital had ever seen the Shark turn his teeth on you.

“She was in PEA, Brendon!” you shot back, using his name, your own temper flaring. “She was dead! I didn't have time to wait for your department to fabricate a piece of plastic! It worked. Her vitals are holding.”

“It was luck!” Brendon snarled, stepping into your personal space, his imposing height towering over you, his eyes cold and hard as flint. “It was a reckless, arrogant, cowboys-and-indians piece of medicine that violates every standard of care in this institute. You didn't save her; you got lucky that you didn't paralyze her. Get out of my way. Move.”

He shoved past you, his movements aggressive and sharp as he immediately began to assess the damage, barking orders to his residents to get her to the OR for a proper external fixator.

You stood there, your heart pounding against your ribs. The insult stung—not just because he criticized your medicine, but because he had done it in front of the entire department, stripping away the mutual respect you had built over the last few weeks. He looked at you like you were a liability. An incompetent child.

“Fine,” you said, your voice dropping into a cold, lethal whisper that cut through his shouting. “She’s your patient now, Chief.”

You turned on your heel and walked out of the trauma bay, your face a mask of absolute, icy calm, leaving a stunned, silent room behind you.

The fallout was immediate and devastating.

The playful, legendary dynamic between the ED’s star attending and the Chief of Ortho vanished overnight. In its place was a terrifying, suffocating ice age that gripped the entire hospital.

For three weeks, there were no more stolen coffees. There were no more playful shoves at the scrub sink. There were no more private smiles or late-night laughs.

When Brendon came down to the ED for a consult, the atmosphere turned to absolute glass. You handled hand-offs with an icy, flawless professionalism that was completely devoid of emotion.

“Patient in Bed 4 has a displaced bimalleolar fracture,” you would say, your voice flat, your eyes fixed strictly on the computer monitor, never looking at his face. “Films are on the system. Ortho is consulted.”

“Understood,” Brendon would reply, his voice deep, hollow, and equally cold. He would take the chart, his eyes lingering on you for a desperate, painful second, hoping for a spark, a glance, anything. But you gave him nothing. You were a wall of ice.

The hospital staff was miserable.

“I hate this,” Dennis Whitaker whimpered in the breakroom, putting his head in his hands. “When they were flirting, the hospital was safe. Now? Dr. Park looked at my cast yesterday and told me a toddler with a crayon could have done a better job. He’s meaner than he’s ever been.”

“She isn't doing well either,” Dana Evans sighed, leaning against the counter. “She’s quiet. She’s brilliant as always, but that light she brought with her? It’s dimmed. They’re both miserable, stubborn idiots.”

You were miserable. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fury in his eyes in that trauma bay. The words “reckless, arrogant gamble” burned in your chest. You had thought he, of all people, would understand. He knew how you operated; he knew you would never do something unless it was the absolute last resort. But he had judged you. He had put his professional arrogance above the reality of the situation.

And worse, it felt like your ex-fiancé all over again—someone telling you that your passion, your instinct, your identity as a doctor was flawed, dangerous, or empty.

You threw yourself into your work, pulling extra shifts, running yourself ragged just to keep your mind from thinking about the giant, dark-eyed surgeon who occupied the upper floors.

It was a rainy Thursday night, nearly four weeks after the argument. The storm outside was a mirror of the mood inside the hospital.

You just visited a pediatric patient on one of the top floors of the hospital. You had promised the kid that you’d visit her after her CRPP. Your shift had just ended, and you were thoroughly exhausted. Your feet ached, your eyes burned, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed in Shadyside and sleep for a week.

You walked toward the main elevator bank in the central pavilion, waiting for the car to arrive. The bell chimed. The doors slid open.

You stepped inside. You reached out to press the button for the ground floor, but stopped.

Sitting in the corner of the elevator, leaning heavily against the handrail with his eyes closed, was Brendon. He looked absolutely destroyed. His scrubs were wrinkled, dark bags hung under his eyes, and his broad shoulders were slumped in a state of profound, total physical exhaustion.

You froze. Your first instinct was to step back out, to wait for the next car. But before you could move, the automatic doors slid shut behind you.

The elevator began its smooth, silent descent from the twelfth floor.

You stood near the control panel, your back rigid, your eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator as it changed. 11... 10... 9...

The silence inside the small metal box was heavy, suffocating, and charged with four weeks of unspoken agony. You could hear his breathing—slow, deep, and tired.

8...

Suddenly, the elevator gave a violent, sharp lurch.

A loud, mechanical screech echoed from the shaft above. The lights flickered violently once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the car into absolute darkness. A second later, the emergency red backup lights kicked in, casting a dim, crimson glow over the small space.

The elevator ground to a dead halt.

You blinked, gripping your bag tighter. You reached out and pressed the emergency call button. Nothing happened. The system was completely dead.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just perfect.”

From the back of the car, you heard a long, heavy sigh. Brendon shifted his weight, his large frame moving through the red light. He looked up at the digital indicator.

The indicator was stuck on a single digit.

7.

The irony hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Floor 7.

Seven years ago, you were trapped in a dark closet for seven minutes. And now, seven years later, you were trapped in a dark elevator on the seventh floor with the exact same man.

Neither of you spoke for a long minute. The red light painted the space in a surreal, intimate warmth, cutting off the rest of the hospital, the rest of the world. There were no residents here. No nurses. No watchful eyes. Just the two of you.

“Are you okay?” Brendon’s voice broke the silence. It wasn't the voice of the Shark. It wasn't the voice of the angry Chief of Ortho. It was soft, hesitant, and carrying a deep, raw ache that made your chest tighten.

“I’m fine,” you said coldly, keeping your eyes fixed on the closed doors. “Just tired. I’d like to go home.”

“Baby... please.”

The use of the old nickname sent a violent tremor through your defenses. You closed your eyes, fighting the urge to turn around.

“Don’t call me that, Dr. Park,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. “I think you made your thoughts on my identity quite clear four weeks ago.”

Hear a rustle of movement behind you. Brendon stood up. He walked across the small car, his massive, imposing presence closing the distance until he was standing right behind you. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smelling the faint, familiar scent of cedar wood and soap that had always been him.

“I was wrong,” he whispered.

You bit your lip, refusing to look at him. “You think?”

“I was wrong about why I was angry,” he corrected himself, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering over your shoulder, before he gently, tentatively placed it there. The touch was electric, burning through your scrubs. “I wasn't angry because your decision was bad. I knew the technique. I knew it was a battlefield maneuver. I knew she was in PEA.”

You finally turned around, snapping your eyes up to meet his. In the dim red light, his dark eyes were shining with unshed tears, his expression completely broken, stripped of all pride.

“Then why did you humiliate me in front of my team?” you demanded, your voice rising, the anger and hurt finally spilling over. “Why did you call me reckless and arrogant? Do you know what that felt like? After everything I went through, after my ex told me I was empty and that my career was a disease—you stood there and told me I was a liability!”

Brendon looked like he’d been stabbed. He took a sharp breath, his hands coming up to gently grip both of your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin.

“Because I was terrified!” he shouted softly, his voice thick with raw passion. “I walked into that bay and saw you covered in blood, pulling a stunt that could have ended your career if it went wrong. If that patient had died, if you had cut that artery, the board would have stripped your license before the sun came up. They would have destroyed you.”

He stepped closer, his chest pressing against yours, forcing you back slightly against the elevator wall. He looked down at you, his eyes wild with a desperate, consuming love.

“I didn't care about the protocol, baby. I cared about you. The thought of you losing your license, the thought of this hospital breaking you, the thought of you being taken away from me again before I even got the chance to tell you... I couldn't handle it. The Shark? That’s an act. It’s an act I put on so I don't break. But when it comes to you, I have no skin. I am completely raw. I saw you risking everything, and I panicked.”

You stared up at him, your breath hitching in your throat. The anger in your chest melted away, replaced by the profound, crushing realization of his true intent. He hadn't been attacking your competence; he had been trying to protect you from the system that had almost broken him.

“Brendon...” you breathed, your voice softening, your eyes searching his face.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, his forehead dropping down to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Seven years, baby. Seven years of working eighty hours a week, looking at bone scans, moving up the ladder, but every single night, I woke up wishing I was back on that floor in med school sharing Chinese food with you. I wished I could turn back time. To when things were simple. To when I was just the awkward kid who was lucky enough to have the most beautiful girl in the world look at him.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, catching the red light. “I wished for it too,” you confessed quietly. “Every single day.”

“I love you,” he said, the confession raw, heavy, and absolute. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”

The final wall of ice inside you shattered into dust.

You reached up, your hands flying to the back of his neck, burying your fingers in his dark hair, and pulled him down.

The kiss wasn't like the ones from seven years ago—it wasn't full of tragic promises and impending goodbye. It was a violent, passionate, territorial reclamation. It was the release of seven years of pining, of loneliness, of misery.

Brendon groaned deep in his throat, his arms wrapping around your waist like bands of steel, lifting you slightly off the floor as he crushed his lips against yours. He kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue parting your lips, tasting you, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.

You gasped into his mouth, your body melting completely into his broad, massive frame. You locked your legs around his waist, your back pressing hard against the cold metal wall of the elevator as he held you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs with a fierce, possessive intensity.

The red light flickered around you, creating a private, chaotic heaven. He moved his mouth down your jawline, his lips burning against the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch your back and let out a soft, breathless moan that echoed off the metal walls—the exact same sound you had faked seven years ago in that closet, but this time, it was entirely, beautifully real.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned against your skin, his hands sliding under your scrub top, his warm palms mapping the curves of your waist, making your skin tingle with an electric fire.

You pulled his head back up, your eyes meeting his dark, blown-out pupils in the crimson dusk. “Don’t stop,” you whispered breathlessly. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn't. He kissed you until your lips were bruised, until your lungs burned, until the seven years of separation felt like nothing more than a bad dream.

CLUNK.

The elevator gave a sudden, violent jolt.

The mechanical screech returned, and suddenly, the bright, harsh fluorescent white lights of the car snapped back on. The digital indicator flickered and changed to G. The elevator began to move again smoothly.

You both froze. You quickly slid down his body, your feet hitting the floor, your hands frantically smoothing down your wrinkled scrubs and fixing your hair as Brendon stumbled back a step, his chest heaving, his face flushed, his eyes wild.

A second later, the chime echoed. The doors slid open smoothly to the main lobby.

Standing right outside the doors, waiting to board, were Langdon and Santos.

The two of them looked into the elevator. They took in the scene: you, standing near the back, your lips visibly swollen, your hair slightly disheveled, but your face wearing a cool, utterly unbothered expression. And beside you stood the Chief of Ortho, Dr. Brendon Park, his scrubs wrinkled, his breathing heavy, and a look of profound, dazed distraction on his face.

Trinity’s eyes went wide. Langdon blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you.

“Uh... evening, Doctors,” Frank stammered. “Is... is the elevator working?”

You flicked your hair over your shoulder, stepped past them with an elegant and utterly effortless charisma, and gave them a sweet smile.

“It’s working perfectly,” you said smoothly. “Have a good night, everyone.”

You walked out into the rainy Pittsburgh night, your heart soaring higher than it ever had in your entire life. Behind you, you heard Brendon’s heavy footsteps rushing to catch up.

The rain had stopped by the time the sun began to peek over the Monongahela River, casting a pale pink and gold glow over the brick buildings of Shadyside.

Inside your bedroom, the air was warm, quiet, and peaceful. The half-unpacked boxes in the corner didn't look like an unfinished chore anymore; they looked like a beginning.

In the center of the bed, tangled deep within the white cotton sheets, lay the two of you.

After the elevator doors had opened, there had been no more talking, no more hesitation. You had driven back to your apartment in a blur of rain and neon lights. The moment the front door had clicked shut, the clothes had been shed, the barriers broken down completely.

The sex had been profound—an intense, passionate, and deeply emotional consummation that carried the weight of seven years of waiting. It hadn't just been physical; it was the reclamation of your souls. Every touch, every gasp, every whispered confession against the skin had been a promise rewritten. He had loved you with a fierce, worshipful intensity that made you realize you were anything but empty. You were his entire world.

You slowly opened your eyes, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, illuminating the broad, muscular expanse of Brendon’s back. He was sleeping on his side, his large frame taking up most of the mattress. One of his massive arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand resting possessively against your hip, pulling your back flush against his chest even in his sleep.

You smiled, turning around slowly within his grip so you could look at him.

Without the mask of the Shark, his face was peaceful, handsome, and remarkably soft. The dark circles under his eyes seemed less prominent now, smoothed out by the deep, restorative sleep he’d been deprived of for weeks.

You reached out, your fingers gently tracing the sharp line of his jaw, moving up to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from his forehead.

Brendon stirred. His long eyelashes fluttered open, his dark eyes cloudy with sleep. The moment his gaze focused on your face, a slow, incredibly beautiful smile spread across his lips—a smile that was reserved strictly for you.

“Good morning, baby,” he rumbled, his voice thick and raspy from sleep, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

“Good morning, Shark,” you whispered back, leaning forward to press a soft, sweet kiss against his lips.

He groaned happily, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“Don’t make me go to work today,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll page out. I’ll tell them I broke my arm.”

You let out a melodic, genuine laugh, running your hands through his hair. “You’re the Chief of Ortho, Brendon. You can't page out for a broken arm. That’s bad for your brand.”

“My brand is entirely yours,” he whispered, kissing the sweet spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “Let them handle the bones today. I’m staying right here.”

You smiled, closing your eyes as you held him tight, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.

The past was gone. The cruel words of your ex-fiancé were nothing more than ash. You were here, in a new city, running a world-class department, and waking up in the arms of the man who had loved you through a lifetime of separation.

You were the cool and undeniably brilliant doctor who feared nothing—not the trauma bay, not the future, and certainly not the Shark. Because beneath the steel and the bone, he was just your Brendon, and you were his.

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