Chapter Text
Trinity thinks she’s hidden it well — the long sleeves under her scrubs, the careful movements, her hard outer shell.
“A danger to yourself and others.” That’s what her therapist had said, voice steady, almost clinical. The words had echoed in Santos’s mind for weeks afterward, sharp and invasive. A danger to others? That part had stung the most. Her harm had always been inward and deliberate.
Marring her own skin had just became a part of life. A regrettable part at that, but it was normalcy for her. The phrase made her sound volatile, unpredictable, like a live wire sparking in every direction. But her destruction had borders. It lived inside the perimeter of her body. It never crossed it.
She shook these thoughts as she headed to the staff bathroom of the ED. Calling it normal had always been her defense. If it was normal, it wasn’t broken. She had carried something sharp with her since she was sixteen. It was no different than someone carrying lip balm or mints, just another item she reached for when the world felt abrasive.
Razors snapped from disposable shavers. Slivers of metal pried loose from sharpeners. Small, efficient, easy to hide. They fit neatly inside her Altoids tin alongside gauze and alcohol wipes. The ritual mattered: the preparation, the control, the predictability. The relief that followed was immediate and grounding, like exhaling after holding her breath too long.
The Emergency Department had a way of pressing on every nerve. The constant alarms. The metallic smell of blood. The way grief could shift from one bay to the next in seconds. As a medical student, she felt everything and owned none of it. Too inexperienced to be in charge, too far along to be protected. She carried the weight of mistakes she hadn’t made yet.
It had been a brutal winter. The ambulance bay doors opened constantly, letting in gusts of biting air. Everyone layers long sleeves under their scrubs now. No one questioned it. The cold was convenient camouflage.
Back in the present, she locked the bathroom door and leaned against it for a moment, listening. The apartment was silent.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small red Altoids tin, its edges worn smooth. Along with it came a few squares of gauze and a roll of tape she had slipped from the supply cart earlier. Her hands were steady. They always were.
Opening the tin felt ceremonial. Inside, nestled carefully, were a couple of blades. She lifted it between her fingers, turning it so the fluorescent light flashed along its edge. The metal was cold—startlingly so. The chill ran through her fingertips and up her arm.
It frightened her, that coldness.
And yet, even before it touched her skin, she felt the familiar loosening in her chest. The promise of relief. The quieting of noise. The illusion of control in a world where she had so little of it.