The August heat in Manila isn’t just temperature; it’s a physical presence, a weight that presses down on your shoulders and makes it hard to breathe, even inside the air-conditioned halls of Philippine General Hospital. I’ve been working the night shift for six months now—the shift nobody wants—the shift full of drunkards, motorcycle crashes along EDSA, and knife fights in the alleyways of Quiapo.
I snap on my latex gloves with a crisp click. Dr. Miguel Reyes, a second-year resident, is across the trauma bay, laughing with two floor nurses. I know they’re talking about me. I hear the quick, nervous chuckles. They call me “silent,” “clumsy,” or my personal favorite: “the nun,” because I insist on wearing a long-sleeve thermal under my scrubs even when it’s thirty degrees Celsius.
“Hey, Laura,” Miguel calls with the arrogance of someone fresh out of med school, convinced the world owes him respect. “Are you going to take the whole year setting up the central line kit? The patient won’t wait for your nap.”
I don’t look up. My gloved fingers arrange vials of adrenaline and atropine with perfect symmetry. It’s not slowness; it’s methodology. In my former life, one misplaced vial meant a man bled out in the streets of Marawi while I searched blindly in a medic bag under gunfire. But to Miguel, it’s incompetence.
“It’s ready, doctor,” I respond flatly.
“Then hurry up,” he snaps, winking at one of the assistants. “Let’s see if you don’t faint when real blood appears today.”
I bite my tongue. The metallic taste of frustration is my constant companion. I could tell him I’ve held open chests with nothing but a headlamp, that real blood smells of iron and fear. I could explain that the scars hidden under my sleeves aren’t from shyness—they are maps of hell itself. But I say nothing. I chose this silence. I chose to be Laura Perdomo, Manila’s anonymous night nurse, burying Captain Perdomo, combat medic of the Special Operations Command.
A loudspeaker crackles, slicing through the midnight haze with static that makes my hair rise.
“Trauma team, attention! ETA three minutes. Male, 40, gunshot wound to left hemithorax, severe hypovolemic shock. Code Red.”
The atmosphere shifts instantly. Miguel’s laughter dies. His hands tremble as he fumbles with his stethoscope. Fear. The primal fear of not knowing what to do when death walks through the door. I know this fear. I conquered it years ago through trauma.
I position myself at the head of the gurney, ready.
“This will be a disaster,” mutters a nurse. “Miguel isn’t ready for an emergency thoracotomy if it comes to that.”
“The attending won’t arrive in time,” I say calmly.
The automatic doors of the ambulance bay slide open with a hydraulic hum. Blue lights flash across white tiles, turning the trauma bay into a grim disco. Paramedics push the gurney with the frantic urgency only known when you’re losing the battle.
“Male, gunshot wound, no exit wound!” shouts the paramedic as they slam the gurney to a halt. “BP 60/40, tachycardic, saturating 85%! He’s lost a lot of blood!”
I move in. My eyes scan him in a second: a machine-like assessment I can’t turn off. Male, athletic, torso wrapped in blood-soaked gauze, arterial spray. But there’s more. Calloused hands, a body poised for combat. An old burn scar on his right side from an IED. And then I see his face.
Time stops. The alarms, Miguel’s shouts, the air conditioning… vanish.
It’s Javier.
Javier “Lobo” Velasco. Commander of the Special Operations Group. My commander. The man who carried me out of the valley of death three years ago, my leg shredded by shrapnel, over his shoulder.
He’s pale as wax. Life streaming from his chest.
“I can’t find a pulse!” shouts Miguel, voice rising with panic. “Nurse, give me… give me something! I don’t know what to do!”
Miguel freezes, staring at Javier’s bubbling chest wound, paralyzed. The deer in headlights.
Javier opens his eyes. Dark, sharp, usually alive with cunning, now clouded by shock. They roll frantically, seeking a team that isn’t there. He finds a terrified resident and a white ceiling.
And then me.
I see the instant his brain, starved of oxygen, makes the connection. He blinks slowly. Shouldn’t be possible, but this man’s will is a force of nature.
“Laura…” he whispers, a bubble of blood on his lips.
Miguel turns, confused.
“Do you know the nurse?” he asks stupidly.
Javier ignores him. He looks at me. With the last of his strength, he raises his right hand. It trembles violently, blood dripping from the elbow. But the hand rises, up to his temple.
He salutes. To me. The “useless nurse.” The acknowledgment between warriors who have bled together.
“My… Captain…” he gasps.
Silence falls. Miguel stares. Nurses stare. Paramedics stare.
Javier drops his hand. His eyes close. The cardiac monitor screams VFib. He’s leaving us.
Something inside me shatters. I push Miguel aside.
“Move!” I roar, not as Nurse Laura, but the voice that gave orders over PKM fire in Marawi. A grave, commanding voice.
“What are you doing?” Miguel yells, indignant.
“I said move! Charge the defibrillator to 200 joules! Prep intubation! Two large-bore femorals, now!”
Miguel freezes.
“This is beyond your authority!”
“This man has a subclavian shot and is coding—do it or he dies!”
No one argues. Fear obeys authority where rank cannot.
“Clear!” I command. The body arches. I monitor vitals: weak sinus rhythm, filiform pulse. “We need blood! Type O negative, everything available!”
I roll up sleeves. The scars on my arms, long, purple, and jagged—MOE tattoo visible. Miguel sees it. Turns pale.
“Who… are you?”
“I’m a battlefield medic,” I respond. “Captain Laura Perdomo, Special Operations Command.”
Even Dr. Aranda, Chief of Surgery, freezes.
“Perdomo?” he asks, disbelief. “The one who rescued twelve men in Qala-i-Naw three years ago?”
“Yes. I wanted peace. Only peace.”
“Seems war found you anyway.”
Four hours blur. Lights, cauterizer smell, pitiful sounds. Javier is alive. Stable.
When I leave OR, I breathe. Manila night smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant. My arms burn. Adrenaline leaves, and reality crashes down.
A platoon enters. Six men, civilian clothes but military bearing. They search for their leader. Sargento Muñoz locks eyes with me, sees my blood-stained arms, nods in respect.
“Capitana Perdomo,” he says, crisp. “It’s an honor.”
Later, HR director storms. I expect reprimand, dismissal. But the Sargento steps forward, protective. Aranda backs me. Ministry of Defense intervenes: my credentials reinstated, a trauma liaison unit is formed. I will lead it.
I sip coffee, exhausted, scars visible but lighter on my soul. Javier recovers. Miguel, humbled, learns courage. And I, Laura Perdomo, finally reclaim my identity: medic, soldier, unafraid to lead.