From Snooze Button to Surgical Stakes: My Morning Commute Was Slightly Hectic (Understatement of the Century).
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Author Note:
"Hey there, speed readers! Ever had one of those mornings where everything just goes sideways? Well, multiply that by a looming figure of academic doom and you've got Sawyer's current situation. Fun fact: Apparently, even the most terrifying professors have a name that strikes fear into the hearts of many. Meet Professor Reddy! (Try not to be late for his lectures)."
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Sawyer weaved through the chaotic morning traffic like a man possessed, each movement sharp and aggressive, driven by sheer desperation.
His fingers clenched the steering wheel with white-knuckled force, his grip so tight it felt like the wheel might snap beneath his palms. His breaths came in shallow bursts, almost in sync with the rapid thudding of his heart against his ribcage—a frantic rhythm that drummed louder with every passing second.
Every few seconds, his eyes flicked from the road ahead to the rearview mirror, scanning for flashing lights, patrol vehicles, anything that could add to the disaster already unraveling. His car veered sharply past a cyclist who had drifted into his lane, the back tire brushing dangerously close.
"Shit," he hissed under his breath, not even having time to apologize. There was no time. There was never enough time.
He skirted around a slow-moving truck, tires screaming as he changed lanes without warning, the sharp turn nearly lifting one side of the car. His stomach lurched at the motion, but he pushed through it, keeping his foot pressed hard against the gas.
His phone vibrated for the fifth time on the passenger seat, a relentless buzz that added to the noise in his head. He didn't need to check. He already knew who it was. Still, he risked a glance.
Aiden.
He sighed, more out of dread than relief, and snatched the phone with one hand, answering it with a jerky slide of his thumb.
"Yo, Say. Where the fuck are you?" Aiden's voice blasted through the speaker, filled with a cocktail of impatience, mild concern, and that typical edge of sarcasm.
"I'm—" Sawyer swerved around a pothole, his breath hitching. "—I'm like… three corners away," he managed, his voice tight, barely above a whisper.
The sentence was cut by the blare of a horn as another driver shouted something incoherent through an open window. Tires screeched again as Sawyer barely avoided the rear end of a delivery van that had slammed on its brakes.
He didn't even react. He couldn't afford to.
There was only one thought bouncing inside his head now:
Just make it. Just get there.
"Well, if you're not here in fifteen," Aiden said, his tone dropping into mock solemnity, "then you're three corners away from the afterlife. Professional Reddy's words, exactly."
Sawyer didn't answer at first. He let the sarcasm hang in the air, his jaw tightening as he swerved around a stalled taxi, the words sinking in like cold water trickling down his spine.
Aiden's voice carried the usual smug amusement, laced with laughter that echoed faintly through the speaker—light, unbothered, familiar. On any other day, Sawyer might've groaned, rolled his eyes, maybe even snapped back with a sarcastic jab of his own. Aiden loved to imagine himself a stand-up comic—one who never quite made it to the stage. His punchlines were always half-baked, his timing hopelessly off, and his delivery dry enough to rival expired bread. Sawyer had roasted him for it more times than he could count.
But right now, he would take those terrible jokes—hell, he'd listen to an hour of Aiden's worst one-liners—if it meant not having to walk through the double doors of the hospital and look Professor Reddy in the eye.
Professor Reddy wasn't just a lecturer. He was a legend—unfortunately, the kind whose reputation came with horror stories whispered like campfire tales. Head of the city's national teaching hospital, Reddy was known for his impossible standards, an obsession with clinical perfection, and the uncanny ability to dismantle a student's confidence with a single raised brow.
He didn't shout. He didn't need to. His critiques were scalpel-sharp, delivered in calm, measured tones that somehow cut deeper than any insult. Students left his ward rounds shaken, their egos bruised, their notebooks filled with corrections written in red ink like blood spatters on a battlefield.
And Sawyer? He was already late.
Just the thought of Reddy's disapproving glare made his stomach twist, the kind of sickening knot that no amount of deep breathing could untangle.
He glanced again at the time on his dashboard, his pulse climbing another notch.
Fourteen minutes.
Maybe less if traffic cleared. Maybe more if the universe kept working against him.
His grip tightened on the wheel.
He pressed harder on the gas.
Professor Reddy's face, when angered, was not simply expressive—it was a full-blown theatrical production of barely restrained fury. His skin would redden gradually, starting at the base of his neck and climbing like a tide of boiling water until it reached his scalp. His eyes would narrow into hostile slits, as if trying to pierce through your soul, and his lips would flatten into a rigid line, so thin it looked like it had been drawn with a blade.
To Sawyer, Reddy wasn't just a professor—he was a harbinger of academic doom, the reason why countless students mysteriously switched majors or dropped out entirely. The man's name alone carried the weight of dread in whispered hallways and group chats. He was the nightmare assigned to the ward, a myth made flesh, breathing down the necks of every wide-eyed, trembling medical intern.
A titan of terror, yes… but more accurately, in Sawyer's current state of mind, he was a total fuck face. The thought crept in bitterly, coated with resentment and panic. It wasn't just an insult—it was a defense mechanism, a way to armor himself against the rising wave of nausea curling in his gut. Facing Reddy unprepared was like being thrown into a surgical theater with no scrubs, no tools, and no clue what organ you were supposed to remove.
The fear was real, almost physical. It clawed at his chest, twisted in his stomach, and made his hands sweat despite the morning chill seeping through the window cracks.
Sawyer's car screeched into the hospital driveway with a noise that turned heads—a banshee wail of stressed tires and strained brakes. The silence of the early morning shift was shattered in an instant, and somewhere nearby, a nurse probably muttered something about 'reckless interns with God complexes.'
He flung the door open, barely giving the engine time to settle into its ticking cooldown. His legs moved before his brain fully caught up, pounding across the concrete, carrying him in a frenzy toward the hospital's sliding doors. His heart was a jackhammer in his chest, thudding with all the warning signs of a full-on panic attack.
And then—midway there—he stopped.
His sneakers squeaked awkwardly against the pavement, body halting like a marionette whose strings had been yanked.
Something was wrong.
Something was missing.
A cold wave of horror doused him, and he turned on his heel in a sudden, clumsy spin. His eyes locked onto the car, still parked at a slant, door hanging open, engine humming like an impatient reminder. He darted back, yanked the door fully wide, and snatched up his bag from the passenger seat.
It was all there—the ID badge, the stethoscope, his folded scrubs stuffed in the side compartment.
He let out a breath that trembled at the edges, muttering a long, winded, "Shitshitshit," under his breath as he slammed the door shut again.
Even in the haste of the morning chaos, he couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease—the remnants of that haunting dream still clinging to the edges of his mind like shadows refusing to lift in daylight.
Bag slung over his shoulder, its weight pressing against his side with a familiar heaviness, Sawyer sprinted toward the reception hall. Each footfall echoed sharply through the cavernous, tiled corridor, the sterile smell of disinfectant and morning coffee lingering in the air. His breath came in short bursts, quick and shallow, his chest rising and falling like he had just finished a 400-meter dash.
The building had only just begun to stir. Patients in wheelchairs moved slowly, pushed by drowsy-looking nurses in faded scrubs. A few doctors with clipped strides passed by, sipping from thermal mugs, skimming tablets, barely glancing up. Their calm, deliberate pace made Sawyer feel even more frantic—like he was the only one moving through time at double speed, chasing a life that kept slipping from his grasp.
"Good morning, soon-to-be Doctor Sawyer!"
The cheerful voice sliced through his panic like sunlight through a stormcloud. It belonged to Mrs. Julie, the ever-pleasant receptionist whose desk sat like a little oasis at the front of the chaos. Her voice was bright, warm, and laced with the kind of optimism that made you feel like maybe the world wasn't so bad after all.
Sawyer barely glanced her way as he whirled past, his coat flaring behind him like a cape. "Not if the head professor kills me first!" he blurted, breathless and panicked, but with a weak attempt at humor that only half-landed.
As he dashed by, she extended a cup of coffee with well-practiced ease, not even flinching as he grabbed it mid-stride like a baton in a relay race. The heat of it scorched his fingertips—he winced, nearly dropping it—but there was no time to worry about that now.
Mid-corridor, halfway between the reception and the resident wing, he twisted awkwardly while still in motion. The sudden turn made him stumble slightly, but he recovered, shouting back over his shoulder with a strained grin, "Oh—and good morning to you too, Mrs. Julie!"
She waved, unbothered by the spectacle, and he disappeared around the corner like a runaway thought—his rushed footsteps swallowed by the hospital's endless halls, his nerves jangling with caffeine, fear, and the ghost of a dream that refused to fully fade.
His phone buzzed in his pocket again—a stubborn, rhythmic vibration that felt like an itch he couldn't ignore. It was a sound tied to the world he was trying to keep at bay, the one filled with jokes, demands, and distractions. He already knew who it was before he pulled it out.
The name "Aiden" blinked across the screen in bold white letters, accompanied by a cartoonish avatar he'd forgotten he even set. For a moment, he hovered between answering and silencing. Aiden had a habit of calling at the worst possible times, never grasping the concept of urgency unless it came with a siren.
With a swift, almost aggressive swipe of his thumb, Sawyer shut the phone off, the screen fading to black like the closing of a door. He slid the device back into his pocket with a sense of finality. No distractions today. Not when every second mattered. Not when he was already tap-dancing on the edge of disaster.
Professor Reddy's name echoed in his head like a mantra of dread, each repetition tightening the knot in his stomach. Lateness wasn't just a minor offense in the professor's book—it was a mortal sin, punishable by humiliation, harsh lectures, or worse: exclusion from surgeries.
He rounded the final corner, his breath hitching with every step, his lungs burning from the effort. His shoes squeaked slightly against the polished hospital floor, announcing his arrival before he even reached the door.
The changing room stood ahead like a sanctuary—a dimly lit, no-frills space with chipped lockers, old posters about handwashing, and that faint scent of antiseptic and sweat. He slipped inside and let the heavy door shut behind him with a dull thud that seemed to muffle the chaos of the hospital outside.
He paused, just for a second, head bowed, back leaning against the door as he exhaled. The breath came out slow, shaky. It was the kind of release that tried, and failed, to dispel the chaos still bubbling inside him.
With trembling hands, he dropped his bag onto the worn wooden bench, its surface scuffed from years of similar morning rituals. He unzipped the bag with care, like it was holding something sacred, and pulled out his folded scrubs. Deep green—rich in color, crisp at the edges—the uniform carried the weight of both pressure and purpose.
He held the scrubs in his hands for a moment, running his fingers over the fabric. It felt cool, almost calming. The smooth texture grounded him, a sensory anchor pulling him out of the lingering grip of the dream, out of the panic of the morning, and into the version of himself he was trying to be.
This was who he was now: a student surgeon. A future doctor. Someone who couldn't afford mistakes, not today, not under Professor Reddy's gaze.
With the muscle memory of countless early mornings and late shifts, Sawyer moved with practiced efficiency, each gesture swift yet controlled, shaped by necessity rather than grace. He peeled off his civilian clothes—the graphic T-shirt still creased from sleep, the jeans hastily yanked on during his frantic dash out the door. These were the fabrics of his ordinary life, worn and soft, bearing the scent of the dream he had barely escaped and the morning panic that had followed.
In their place, he tugged on the deep green scrubs, the color rich and institutional, unmistakably medical. The cotton felt cooler than he remembered, brushing against his skin with a strange mixture of comfort and tension. He adjusted the top with careful fingers, tugging the hem down, smoothing out creases, as if those small acts of order could still salvage the chaos of his morning.
Then came the final touch—the hospital ID tag. He clipped it to the neckline with a quiet click, the sound oddly satisfying in the stillness of the changing room. The card caught a flicker of overhead light as it settled into place, and for a brief second, he caught his own name printed in bold black text:
"Sawyer West Reid — Student Surgeon."
It stared back at him like a challenge and a promise all at once. That flimsy piece of plastic was more than just identification. It was a statement of purpose, a fragile piece of proof that he belonged in this building, in this life, even when everything inside him felt scrambled and uncertain.
But before stepping back out into the blinding brightness of the hospital's labyrinthine corridors, he paused—an instinctual halt that had become part of his routine, even on the worst days. His hand reached into the inside pocket of his bag, fingers groping past scattered notes, pens, and a half-eaten protein bar, until they closed around something cold and familiar.
He pulled out a delicate gold necklace—a thin chain with a pendant shaped like a miniature blade. It wasn't flashy or particularly expensive, but to him, it was everything. The gold had dulled slightly over the years, and the blade's edges were smoothed by time, the pendant no longer sharp, but still potent in meaning.
It had belonged to his mother—a doctor who had worked night shifts and double shifts, who had faced death with tired eyes and unwavering strength. She'd given it to him the Night of her death, pressing it into his palm like a promise: that he was ready, that he was strong enough, that he was hers.
He lifted it to his lips and kissed the metal, just briefly. A quiet moment of grounding. Of calling her back into his bones. The cool surface touched his skin and settled just beneath the neckline of his scrubs, hidden from the world but close to his heart.
"Let's not fuck this up," he whispered to himself, the words half prayer, half warning, and then He turned to the door before turning back to pick up his phone, he took another deep breath to calm himself.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, the words barely more than a breath, a fragile thread of sound woven from nerves and hope. His fingers lingered at the neckline of his scrub top for a second longer, ensuring the gold chain was safely tucked away, the pendant cool against his chest—a hidden talisman pressing against his heartbeat like a quiet reminder: You're not alone.
"Let's do this," he whispered again, more for courage than conviction, then drew in a deep breath. The air that filled his lungs was sharp with the sterile sting of antiseptics, the crisp chemical scent of disinfectant and latex gloves—a smell that, once foreign, had now become synonymous with purpose. It cut through the lingering remnants of his dream like cold water, grounding him in the present, dragging him from memory to reality.
With a subtle nod to no one in particular, he pressed his palm against the cold metal door and pushed. It swung open with a quiet ease, its hinges oiled to perfection—one of the many unnoticed things the hospital demanded be seamless.
The hallway beyond was already alive with motion. Nurses glided past with quiet authority, clipboards in hand and focus etched into every line of their faces. Orderlies rolled carts loaded with supplies or meals, wheels squeaking faintly over the tiled floors. The occasional low murmur of medical jargon drifted between rooms.
Sawyer stepped into the rhythm of it all, his stride steadier now, more measured. Gone was the frantic scramble of earlier—he had no more time for panic. What he carried now was resolve, and beneath that, a gnawing thread of dread. His steps carried him in the direction of the surgical wing—the living heart of the hospital, pulsing with urgency and tension, responsibility and fear.
Hospitals had rules. Hundreds of them, if you bothered to count—protocols, procedures, ethical codes, unending technical standards. But among the students, three rules stood apart, not written in any handbook but enforced with quiet ferocity, carved into the fabric of survival in the medical hierarchy.
One: Don't speak unless spoken to.
Silence wasn't just golden; it was survival. Students were expected to blend into the background—present but invisible, alert but quiet. Deference was the price of observation, and unsolicited opinions were landmines waiting to detonate.
Two: Don't touch unless instructed.
It didn't matter how eager you were, how much you thought you could help. Every patient was sacred space, and crossing that line without permission was unforgivable. A single well-meant gesture could cost you everything.
Three: Don't be late.
This one wasn't just a rule. It was law. Time was sacred in the hospital, and professors like Reddy didn't tolerate even a whisper of delay. Tardiness wasn't just a sign of disrespect—it was an affront to the profession itself. A personal insult.
Sawyer had broken the first two before. Not often, and not egregiously—just enough to get scolded. His passion to learn sometimes overstepped his caution, his desire to prove himself overriding his better judgment. But the third rule? That one, he'd never touched.
Until today.
Today, his arrival was already tainted by the sin of lateness, a black mark he could feel pressing into his chest like a brand. And Professor Reddy—unforgiving, unbending—was waiting.
Each step toward the surgical wing felt heavier than the last, as if time itself was punishing him, dragging its feet while pushing him forward, straight into the storm.
He cautiously pushed open the heavy door to the operating theatre, the metal cool beneath his palm, its weight resisting him slightly as if warning him not to proceed. The moment it swung inward, the sterile, white-bright space seemed to swallow him whole.
The air inside was thick—almost oppressively so—with the sharp scent of disinfectant, iodine, and something heavier, something that clung to the skin: anticipation. A quiet tension hung like a veil over the room, invisible but palpable, humming just beneath the surface of every breath. The faint shuffle of shoe covers on linoleum, the gentle clink of metal instruments being arranged, the murmur of low voices—everything felt suspended, waiting.
A sea of green greeted him—students clad in identical scrubs, their bodies forming loose, nervous clusters along the walls of the gallery, eyes trained either on the central surgical table or shifting with the restless energy of shared unease. Some looked eager, others overwhelmed, and a few already wore the glazed expressions of those trying not to faint.
Sawyer's steps were slow, measured, and almost involuntary. His limbs moved with the instinct of a hunted animal trying to avoid notice, his eyes scanning the room for a gap at the back—anywhere to disappear into. He hugged the wall, easing into the edge of the group, his shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to fold himself into a smaller shape. Every heartbeat sounded like a drum in his ears.
He didn't belong here. Not like this. Not late, not anxious, not completely unprepared after the morning's chaos and that damn dream that still lingered like smoke in his mind. He needed to melt into the background, to disappear.
But fate had other plans.
"Mr. Sawyer West Reid!"
The voice cracked through the theatre like a lightning bolt—booming, sharp, and unmistakably furious. It cut through the quiet with surgical precision, silencing every whisper, freezing every movement.
Sawyer felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach flipping as if he'd just stepped off a cliff. His name echoed in his head, surreal and damning. He dared a glance up.
Aiden, positioned a few steps ahead, turned his head just enough to meet Sawyer's eyes. He gave him a thumbs-up, the gesture half-encouragement, half-teasing. His expression was painfully honest—a grimace shaped like a smile, full of sympathy laced with the helpless amusement of someone glad they weren't in the line of fire.
The crowd shifted. Slowly. Awkwardly.
Like the Red Sea reluctantly parting, students stepped aside, turning toward him with wide eyes and quiet gasps, opening a clear path to the front of the room. The center of attention was no longer the surgical table—it was him.
And standing at the end of that human corridor was the storm itself: Professor Reddy.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding authority with every controlled breath, the man stood with his arms folded across his chest, his brow furrowed in that way that could turn grown men into trembling interns. His surgical cap did nothing to soften the menace of his expression.
Sawyer's heart thudded painfully in his chest, and as he stepped forward—slow, reluctant, yet resigned—it felt like walking into judgment itself.
Professor John Stevens—known almost exclusively as Reddy among the students—stood at the center of the operating theatre like a judge awaiting a verdict. The nickname, whispered with a mix of dread and irreverent humor, had nothing to do with the color of his hair or a fondness for crimson ties. It came from the alarming, almost unnatural flush that climbed his neck and face whenever he was angry, as if his blood boiled just beneath the skin, broadcasting his fury to the entire room like a warning flare.
And right now, that crimson hue was already creeping upward, blooming along his throat and jawline in a slow, furious burn. It spread like a storm front, painting his pale skin with shades of warning. His jaw was clenched tight, teeth grinding behind lips pressed into a firm, merciless line. His steel-gray eyes—cold and penetrating—locked onto Sawyer with surgical precision, narrowing with each passing second, stripping away whatever shred of confidence Sawyer had left.
The clipboard tucked beneath the professor's arm wasn't just a record of attendance or performance. In the hands of Professor Reddy, it became a weapon—used to mark, record, and at times, destroy academic futures with a single stroke of his pen. That simple object, worn smooth at the edges and held with the certainty of experience, had brought more fear to aspiring surgeons than any scalpel.
Sawyer's legs felt heavy, his steps reluctant as he walked forward through the parted crowd, each movement weighed down by dread. He could feel the pressure of dozens of eyes on him—fellow students watching with pity, curiosity, or quiet relief that it wasn't their name that had been called. His palms were slick with sweat. His throat tight. His stomach churned as if every organ was trying to escape the moment.
"Oh fuck," he muttered under his breath, barely more than a whisper, the words slipping from his mouth like a prayer lost in the wind. It was a quiet surrender to whatever storm was about to come.
Professor Reddy didn't raise his voice, but the menace in his tone was unmistakable—a low, coiled growl that seemed to roll through the room with the weight of thunder.
"You'd better have a damn good explanation for being late, Mr. Reid."
Sawyer instinctively opened his mouth, the apology he'd rehearsed on the walk forward sitting ready on his tongue. But the professor was already waving a dismissive hand, cutting him off before the first syllable could form.
"And I don't want to hear any of that traffic nonsense," Reddy continued, his eyes now sharp as razors. "I've heard every excuse in the book. Don't waste my time with another one."
The theatre fell completely silent. Not even a cough or shuffle of shoes. Just the oppressive tension and the soft hum of fluorescent lights above.
Sawyer's mouth snapped shut. The words dried on his tongue like ash. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and cast his gaze downward, deciding—correctly—that silence, though humiliating, was his only shield.
He could feel the professor's fury coiling tighter, looking for a reason to erupt. One wrong word, one flinch, and the man would unleash a public dressing-down so sharp it would leave scars. So, he stood still. Silent. Enduring.
He didn't need to defend himself. Not now. Not here. Every excuse, no matter how real or heartfelt, would be dissected and discarded. And Reddy? Reddy didn't want reasons—he wanted results. Discipline. Punctuality. Perfection.
And Sawyer… had failed him.
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Notes: "So, 'Professional Reddy' sounds like a threat level, not a person! And who knew a gold blade pendant could carry so much emotional weight? It's like a tiny, shiny 'don't mess this up' reminder! Also, Sawyer's internal rulebook seems pretty clear: don't talk, don't touch, and for the love of all that is holy, be on time! Let's see how long he manages to stick to that..."