The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the patient's shallow breaths. Corey's eyes darted across the blank interface. No hints. No glowing prompts. Just the steady rhythm of uncertainty.
He pulled up a stool and sat beside the patient—a middle-aged man clutching his chest, pale and sweating. Corey took his hand, grounding himself in the warmth of human connection. He asked questions, listened carefully, assessed like he had before the system. Piece by piece, the picture began to form—not from the screen, but from observation, from intuition, from skill.
When Corey finally called out for help, the team rushed in. He gave a clear report, his voice steady. The diagnosis came later—an atypical presentation of a silent myocardial infarction. He'd caught it just in time.
The patient survived.
That night, Corey sat alone in the break room, watching the interface quietly glow in the corner of his vision. It didn't feel like a cheat code anymore. It felt like a tool—powerful, yes, but not infallible. The real strength, he realized, came from knowing when *not* to rely on it.
As the semester went on, Corey used the system differently. He stopped racing to the answers. He asked more questions, listened more deeply. And strangely, the interface began to evolve—offering fewer shortcuts, instead prompting reflection, ethical considerations, empathy reminders.
This wasn't a game anymore. It was a calling.
And Corey, once barely holding on, was becoming the kind of nurse he never thought he could be.