Ethan barely slept the night before. He lay awake in the unfamiliar comfort of his younger body, staring at the ceiling as adrenaline hummed through him. Not from fear—no, that was the boy he once was. This was something else. This was awe. This was the quiet storm of stepping onto a path he thought he had lost forever.
He arrived at the Warner Bros. lot before the sun had fully risen, wearing the same worn jacket he used during auditions in his first life. Something about it felt symbolic, as if he were bringing a piece of his old self into this new world. The guard at the front gate checked his name, nodded, and handed him a day-pass badge.
"Stage 11," he said, motioning him forward.
Stage 11.
The place he used to dream about.
The place he had once stood outside of, too scared to walk in.
Now he was here.
The walk across the lot felt surreal. Golf carts zipped past. Crew members wheeled cases of equipment. Extras in scrubs stood around holding styrofoam cups of coffee. Everything was real and alive and humming with the energy of people who knew exactly what they were doing.
Ethan took a slow breath as he approached the massive soundstage doors. A production assistant with a clipboard—barely older than him—looked up.
"Ethan Hale?"
"Yes," he replied, trying to stay calm.
"Great! You're early. Love that. Come with me."
She led him inside, and the moment he stepped through the doors, the world changed.
Bright white hospital lights drenched the room, illuminating rows of fake beds, IV carts, monitors beeping with prerecorded readings. Nurses moved briskly, doctors shouted orders, and patients moaned—none of it real, yet all of it somehow more real than anything he had ever known before.
It hit him right away:
He didn't feel like an outsider.
Not like he did the first time.
This time, he understood the rhythm of a set.
The controlled chaos.
The whispers behind cameras.
The hierarchy of crew.
The invisible clock everyone was always racing against.
His chest tightened with emotion.
He had missed this.
He had missed /everything/ about this.
"Wardrobe's through there," the PA said, pointing to a small hallway. "They'll get you into your paramedic uniform."
"Thank you," Ethan said.
His voice shook just slightly.
He found the wardrobe room bustling with activity. Racks of scrubs, coats, and medical accessories lined the walls. A woman with short gray hair and glasses perched on her head looked him up and down.
"You must be our new paramedic," she said, flipping through her paperwork. "Name?"
"Ethan Hale."
She nodded. "Good build for it. Here—try this."
She handed him navy-blue uniform pants, a matching shirt, and a jacket with a patch reading L.A. COUNTY PARAMEDICS. When he put it on, he felt something shift inside him.
This wasn't pretend.
This was real work.
This was the restart of his career.
When he stepped back onto the soundstage, a few crew members glanced at him and nodded approval. A boom operator adjusted his headphones, an extra in a hospital gown shuffled past him, and someone shouted for quiet as they prepared to shoot a scene.
Ethan stood just outside the frame, absorbing it all.
The smell of coffee and warm lights.
The hum of machinery.
The perfectly controlled chaos.
He leaned against a wall, letting the noise wash over him.
"First day?"
The voice came from behind him. Ethan turned to see Noah Wyle, dressed in full Dr. Carter attire, holding a water bottle and smiling in that calm, easy way that made half of America trust him instantly.
Ethan straightened. "Uh—yeah. First day."
"Welcome to the madness," Noah said, offering a handshake.
Ethan shook it, careful not to let his grip reveal the years of admiration he had for the man. In his first life, he had watched every episode of ER. Noah Wyle shaped what he thought acting should look like—grounded, real, human.
"You look relaxed," Noah observed.
Ethan chuckled softly. "Trying to be."
"Good. Best advice I can give you—don't think of this place as 'Hollywood.' Just think of it as a hospital where nobody bleeds for real. Those lights, those cameras—they're just the walls. The people make the world believable."
Ethan nodded, absorbing the wisdom.
Noah tilted his head. "You've acted before?"
Ethan hesitated. "A little. Mostly stage."
"Keep doing that," Noah said. "Stage actors survive longer here. They know how to breathe."
The director's voice boomed from across the set. "Alright, people! Let's get ready for Scene 32!"
Noah gave Ethan a friendly pat on the arm before walking away to join the cast.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
"You're up," the PA from earlier said, handing him a call sheet. "You're in this scene. You and Carter roll in with a gunshot patient."
Ethan froze. "I'm—I'm in this scene?"
"Yep. They didn't tell you?"
No.
They hadn't.
In his previous life, this had been a tiny role. One line. Maybe two.
But now?
He was being thrown into the scene immediately.
"Okay," he said, summoning the calm he had learned the hard way in his first life. "Let's do it."
He walked to the ambulance set, where a stunt performer lay strapped to a gurney with fake blood soaking his shirt. Another paramedic—a veteran background actor—stood beside him, tightening straps.
"You new?" the man asked without looking up.
"Yeah."
"You know how to roll a gurney?"
Ethan hesitated. "Not… really."
The man gave him a quick tutorial—brakes, handles, posture, speed. Ethan paid close attention, letting muscle memory from training scenes in his first life fill in the gaps.
"Alright," the man said. "Let's not screw it up. Cameras hate wobbly carts."
They rolled the gurney toward the ER entrance set. The director raised his hand.
"And… action!"
Everything blurred.
Noah sprinted out the ER doors, shouting lines Ethan knew by heart. The stunt actor groaned convincingly as Ethan and the other paramedic rolled him in at a fast, steady pace. Ethan called out the patient's vitals—not from memory, but from instinct. Something inside him clicked, and the scene flowed naturally.
Cut.
The director looked up from his monitor. "Ethan, right?"
Ethan swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Good instincts," the director said. "Keep that up."
Ethan felt his chest swell. "Thank you."
They reset the scene.
Second take.
Third take.
Fourth.
Each time, Ethan grew more comfortable. His hands steadied. His breathing matched the scene's intensity. He found the rhythm of the set quickly—faster than any eighteen-year-old should have been able to.
At one point, between shots, Noah leaned toward him.
"You sure you're new?" he asked, smiling.
Ethan shrugged lightly. "Just… grateful to be here."
When the scene wrapped, some crew members patted him on the back, the wardrobe woman fixed his collar, and extras asked if he was "the new regular." He laughed, telling them no, but the warmth in his chest told him something different.
He belonged here.
As he walked outside during lunch break, sunlight spilling across the lot, he pulled out his phone—his clunky 2001 flip phone—and dialed home.
His mother answered. "Ethan? Everything okay?"
Ethan looked around the lot, the place that had shaped him in his first life and now welcomed him in his second.
He smiled, the kind that came from deep inside the soul.
"Everything's great, Mom," he said softly. "Really great."
For the first time in a long, long time…
Ethan believed it.