Corey's reputation at clinicals began to change. At first, instructors assumed he'd just hit his stride, but they couldn't deny there was something different about him. He moved with quiet confidence, not because he always had the right answer, but because he knew how to *find* it—through careful listening, collaboration, and compassion.
Even his classmates started to notice. They asked him for help, and Corey, once the guy hiding at the back of the sim lab, found himself explaining complex conditions in a way that actually made sense. The system still whispered in his mind, sometimes showing paths no textbook had taught, but now he filtered it through experience, not ego.
But things weren't always smooth.
There were moments where the system clashed with reality—times when a patient refused the "ideal treatment," or when a family wanted comfort over cure. The interface would glow red, signaling an "inefficient outcome." At first, Corey fought it. He argued with patients, tried to persuade them to follow the "correct" path. But each time he did, he felt something inside him grow colder.
So he started doing what nursing had always been about: meeting people where they were, not where an algorithm said they should be.
The system didn't always approve. But Corey began to notice something deeper—patients trusted him. They *felt* seen. And little by little, the interface adapted again, subtly reflecting the importance of shared decision-making, advocacy, and empathy.
This wasn't just about saving lives. It was about honoring them.