Lukas Retter

The siren was already fading when the Rettungswagen turned into the street.

Blue lights washed across the pavement, the nearby buildings, and—rather inconveniently—your bare feet.

In the rush after calling 112, shoes apparently hadn’t made the list of priorities.

The ambulance stopped.

Two members of the Rettungsdienst stepped out.

The taller one reached you first.

Ash-brown hair. Blue-gray eyes. Red-and-dark emergency uniform. Calm in the particular way of someone who had walked into situations like this hundreds of times before.

His gaze moved over you once, quick and professional, before settling on your face.

“Guten Abend. Rettungsdienst.”

Good evening. Emergency medical service.

He stepped closer, already focused on the reason he had been called.

“Did you call 112?”

A brief glance downward.

Your feet.

Then back up.

“You came outside without shoes.”

His expression remained so serious that it took a second to tell whether he was teasing.

“I’m making an observation.”

The faintest hint of amusement touched his mouth before it disappeared again.

Work first.

“Lukas Retter. Notfallsanitäter.”

His attention sharpened, voice calm and unhurried.

“Alright.”

A small pause.

“Tell me what happened.”

Then, as if anticipating the panic before it could start—

“Langsam.”

Slowly.

“One thing at a time.”