Page 1 of Provoking Bryan

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BRYAN

The emergency room buzzed with its usual controlled chaos—voices rising in clipped urgency, machines beeping rhythmically, the faint scent of antiseptic mingling with sweat and adrenaline. Dr. Bryan Mena moved through the chaos like a storm through a forest, commanding respect without needing to demand it. He was precision personified, a blend of sharp intelligence and unyielding determination wrapped in scrubs that did nothing to conceal a lean, muscular build.

"Dr. Mena, incoming GSW, ETA one minute!" a nurse called, snapping him out of his focused haze.

Bryan didn’t need a briefing. Gunshot wounds were depressingly routine in Chicago. He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, adjusted his face shield, and began to mentally map out the probable injuries and procedures.

The paramedics burst in, pushing a stretcher carrying a young man in his early twenties, his shirt soaked in blood. A large tattoo of a snarling cobra sprawled across his chest, distorted by the jagged hole in his flesh. His eyes fluttered open and shut, his body fighting unconsciousness as the paramedic rattled off vitals.

"Single GSW to the chest, probable hemothorax. Vitals unstable, systolic in the eighties. We’ve got an IV line in, one liter NS wide open," the paramedic said as they wheeled the stretcher to Bryan’s team.

"Let’s move! Get him to trauma bay two!" Bryan ordered, taking control.

His hands were steady as he assessed the damage. The bullet had torn through muscle, shattering a rib and likely nicking a lung. He issued commands with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen far too many bodies broken by violence.

"Intubate him—he’s crashing! Get a chest tube in; we need to decompress this hemothorax now," Bryan barked.

The team responded seamlessly. Within minutes, the man’s breathing eased as Bryan drained blood from his chest cavity. He glanced up at the heart monitor. The rhythm stabilized—a small victory in an uphill battle.

"He's not out of the woods," Bryan muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

A loud commotion near the entrance caught his attention. Shouts. Panic. Then…

Gunfire.

The sharp cracks echoed through the ER, replacing the buzz of machinery with screams. Bryan’s head snapped up as chaos erupted. A man dressed in dark clothes stormed in, wielding a pistol.

"Everybody down!" the assailant roared, firing indiscriminately.

The gang member’s friends, Bryan thought grimly. He shoved a nurse out of the line of fire, ducking behind the trauma bay’s cabinet.

Another shot rang out, and Bryan saw a uniformed officer collapse just feet away from him, blood pooling beneath her.

His pulse pounded in his ears, but his mind was razor-sharp. He crawled to the fallen officer, keeping low. He felt for a pulse, there was none. Her gun lay within reach.

Bryan hesitated only a second before grabbing it.

The assailant was reloading, his back momentarily turned. Bryan steadied his breathing, the weight of the gun foreign now but somehow familiar in his hand. Training kicked in—though not medical training. He’d served with several special ops units overseas—ostensibly as a medic. Because he often accompanied the teams he’d served with, he’d received specialized training in advanced weapons, languages, demolitions, and advanced combat tactics.

The assailant turned just as Bryan pulled the trigger.

The man crumpled, his weapon clattering to the floor.

Bryan froze, the acrid smell of gunpowder mingling with the antiseptic tang of the ER. Around him, the world roared back to life—patients sobbing, medical staff shouting, the frantic rush of sirens outside.

Later, after giving a statement to the police and helping his team recover from the chaos, Bryan leaned against the cold steel of a supply cabinet in the now-quiet ER. He stared at his bloodied hands.

He’d saved lives tonight—but he’d also taken one.

The moral calculus was clean; the man had been a threat. Still, the weight of it settled into his chest like lead.

Bryan looked around the ER, the walls stained with the evening’s violence. Was this it? Was this what he wanted his life to be—a constant push against an unyielding tide of destruction?

His thoughts drifted to an email he’d received weeks ago, one he’d been too busy to entertain. Doctors Without Borders was looking for trauma specialists.

"Maybe it’s time," he murmured to himself.

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