After that afternoon, during canteen break, I was called by the head director to his office.The message cut through the low hum of voices and clinking cutlery like a blade. “Nurse Morgan, please report to my office immediately.”Sharp. Official. No room for interpretation.I paused mid-sip, fingers tightening around my cup. Around me, laughter continued—two interns arguing over dessert, a doctor scrolling through his phone—but it all felt distant, muffled, like I’d been dropped underwater.I sighed quietly and stood.My feet ached from hours of moving without rest, the dull, persistent pain climbing up my calves. A headache pulsed faintly behind my eyes, the kind that warned you it would get worse if ignored. Still, I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my uniform, and walked out.The director’s office smelled faintly of old paper and disinfectant. When I stepped in, he was already seated behind his desk, glasses resting low on his nose, attention fixed on the files spread neatly be
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