Ethan had rehearsed the moment a thousand times in his dreams during his first life, but standing on the actual set of ER in 2001 was surreal in a way he couldn't have prepared for. The door to Stage 11 at Warner Bros. was heavier than he expected; he pushed it slowly, his heartbeat thudding against his ribs. A rush of cold air hit him—studio AC mixed with the sterile hospital aesthetic of the set. Fluorescent lights bathed everything in an eerie medical glow. Nurses walked briskly through hallways, actors in scrubs leaned against gurneys, crew members adjusted lights, and someone yelled for a prop tray. It was chaos and coordination wrapped in a strange harmony. Ethan paused by the entrance, trying not to look like a lost kid. He wasn't. Not inside. Inside, he was a man who had lived through two decades of misery. But to everyone else here, he was an eighteen-year-old newcomer who had somehow managed to impress a casting director on his first try.
A production assistant with a headset approached him, scanning a clipboard. "Ethan Hale?" she asked without looking up.
He swallowed. "Yeah. That's me."
"Good. You're early." She motioned for him to follow. "Costume wants you. Then blocking. Don't wander off."
Ethan forced himself not to smile. Early. He was early. In his first life, he had been chronically late, scattered, and flustered. Now he felt like he was walking into a sacred place he didn't want to disrespect. He followed the PA through the maze of hallways until they reached the costume, where a rack of paramedic uniforms hung neatly. A wardrobe woman handed him one without much ceremony. He slipped into it quickly, the fabric stiff and slightly oversized, smelling like detergent and new beginnings.
As he stepped out, the wardrobe woman gave him a once-over, adjusting his collar. "You done background work before?" she asked.
"No," Ethan replied honestly.
"Could've fooled me," she muttered, pinning his radio mic strap. "Stand straight. Shoulders back. There—now you look like someone who knows what they're doing."
Ethan smiled faintly. If only she knew how many versions of himself he'd worn before this moment—dreams, failures, false starts. He thanked her and stepped into the hallway again, guided toward set. The closer he got, the louder everything seemed—monitors beeping, actors rehearsing under their breath, directors conferring in hushed tones. He passed by a cluster of actors in scrubs, chatting casually. One of them turned, and Ethan felt his breath catch.
Noah Wyle.
Dr Carter himself.
In his first life, Ethan had watched ER religiously, studying Noah's naturalism, how he grounded every scene. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he'd share a set with him. And now, here he was—the legendary actor standing just a few feet away, sipping coffee, completely unaware that he was a cornerstone of Ethan's inspiration.
Ethan lowered his gaze, not wanting to stare. Professional. Always professional.
The PA directed him to his mark. "You'll come in from here," she said, pointing at a hallway entrance. "Paramedic brings in a patient on a stretcher. You're the paramedic. Dead serious, no joking, high stakes. Got it?"
"I got it," Ethan said softly.
She squinted at him. "You're calm."
Inside, he was anything but calm. Inside, he was screaming. But outside, he stayed steady.
Blocking began. A gurney was rolled in by two extras, one of whom he recognised from the waiting room earlier. The director, a compact man with sharp eyes, approached him.
"You're Ethan," he said, reading from a small call sheet. "Alright. Simple run. You enter the frame from the left, help move the gurney, and deliver the line—'GSW, male, early twenties, vitals dropping.' Keep it sharp. You're paramedics. You're in the zone. Understood?"
"Yes," Ethan replied, standing straighter.
"Good. And look alive. This isn't a walk in the park."
The first run-through was mechanical but smooth. He hit his marks, moved with purpose, and delivered the line cleanly. But the director lifted a hand.
"Not bad," he said. "But you're thinking too much. Less head, more instinct."
Instinct. Ethan had two lifetimes of instinct.
He inhaled quietly and nodded.
"Again," the director said.
They reset. The gurney rolled in. Noah Wyle now stood near the trauma bay, waiting for his cue. The camera operator gave a thumbs-up. Ethan gripped the side of the stretcher. His pulse steadied. His breath deepened. He let his past life bleed into him—the exhaustion, the urgency, the desperation of someone who has seen too many things go wrong.
"Background—action!"
The gurney burst through the hallway. Ethan moved with sharp, urgent steps. His voice came out rougher, more pressured, more real.
"GSW, male, early twenties, vitals dropping!"
His eyes locked with Noah's for half a second. Noah responded perfectly in character: "Let's move—Trauma Two!"
There it was. Connection. Real, alive, electric.
"Cut!" the director called.
Ethan froze.
The director approached him slowly, eyes narrowed in evaluation. Then he nodded once.
"That's the one."
Ethan's lungs loosened.
"Good work, kid," the director added. "You've got presence. Keep that."
Kid. Ethan almost laughed. He hadn't been a kid in a very long time. But hearing it felt… good. Not dismissive. Encouraging.
As the crew reset for the next shot, Ethan stepped back to allow other actors to prepare. He watched the controlled chaos unfold around him. For the first time in his existence—across both lives—he wasn't on the outside looking in. He was part of it. He belonged here.
"You handled that well," someone said behind him.
Ethan turned.
Noah Wyle.
He tried not to look stunned. "Um… thanks."
Noah smiled politely, extending a quick handshake. "Good energy. Most first-timers freeze under pressure."
The praise landed somewhere deep inside him, in a compartment that had been starving for acknowledgement in his first life.
"I've… wanted this for a long time," Ethan admitted quietly.
"Then keep at it," Noah said. "Half this business is stamina."
He walked off before Ethan could respond, but the words stayed with him.
Stamina. Perseverance. Tenacity.
Things Ethan had lacked before.
Things he possessed now.
Hours passed. Scene after scene, Ethan stayed focused, attentive, blending his emotional maturity with youthful agility. By lunchtime, he was already earning nods from crew members, small smiles from extras, and a few curious glances from producers who seemed to be evaluating his potential.
This time, he didn't shrink under attention — he stabilised under it.
After the final shot of the day, the PA pulled him aside.
"Casting office wants to talk to you tomorrow," she said casually.
His heart leapt. "Casting office?"
"They liked your energy. Might have more work for you. Don't be late."
Don't be late.
In his first life, he would have been late.
But this wasn't the first life.
When he stepped off the soundstage, the sun was low, golden, reflecting off the studio walls. The air smelled like asphalt, craft coffee from a food truck, and warm California light. Ethan walked toward the exit gates slowly, soaking in everything — the sound of laughter from a nearby crew, the hum of distant generators, the buzz of creatives all around him.
He felt something he hadn't felt even once in his original timeline.
Hope.
He paused at the gates, turning back to look at the enormous Stage 11 sign glowing softly under the setting sun.
He whispered to himself,
"This is where it begins."
It wasn't just a set.
It wasn't just a job.
It was the first brick in the foundation of the life he was building — the life he would not waste this time.