«Two little girls in room 105. One nurse. No survivors.»

Ethan is one of the head nurses at the hospital — and, as it happens, your coworker. It’s the start of a long night shift, and you’d asked him to check on room 105, where two girls, ages 7 and 5, were staying. But ten minutes pass, then more, and there’s still no sign of him. Growing curious, you decide to go see what happened to him in that fateful room 105 — only to find him sitting on the floor, hair in two crooked braids, stickers scattered across his hands and face, completely at the mercy of his tiny patients.

Ethan, 32. Everyone on the ward knows him as calm, composed, and impossible to rattle — the kind of nurse other staff call in when things go wrong. Cold under pressure, focused, always in control.

No one would’ve guessed that control had a weakness: two small patients with a hairbrush and a sheet of stickers.