Saving Mr Sin

RaySky hadn’t planned on being late. She just had this… condition. The kind that made alarms optional, schedules a loose suggestion, and punctuality a theory that belonged in fiction. The fluorescent lights of St. Claire’s Emergency Room flickered overhead like the broken promises of adulthood. It was 8:07 p.m. and she was exactly seven minutes late to the night shift she’d promised—promised!—to never be late for again. Oops. She shoved through the back doors, pulling on her lab coat one arm at a time, dodging a gurney, a yawning janitor, and some intern who looked like he hadn’t blinked in twenty-four hours. The ER was chaos, which, for her, was just another Tuesday. “RaySky Winters,” barked Dr. Flora from across the nurse’s station. “Nice of you to join us. The trauma ward’s overflowing and we’re two nurses short. Grab a mask. You’re going in.” “Love the warm welcome,” Ray muttered, tying her hair back. “Can I at least inhale some oxygen before I inhale someone else’s blood?” She didn’t wait for a reply. Her legs were already moving, taking her to the disaster zone with that same reckless bravado that had carried her through nursing school. She could handle anything—sprained ankles, broken bones, minor stabbings. But not him. Not the man slumped against the ER bed like a Greek god who took a wrong turn into a shootout. He was bleeding. Not messily. Not chaotically. Elegantly, if that was even a thing. His white shirt was torn and soaked in red, revealing a chiseled chest and a bullet wound just under his ribs. His face was too still. His eyes, closed. “Gunshot victim,” someone said beside her. “No ID. No name. Walked in alone, collapsed before triage.” Ray snapped on her gloves. “And I assume no one checked if he’s secretly a vampire billionaire hitman?” The other nurse blinked. “I’m sorry—what?” “Never mind.” She got to work, adrenaline clicking into place like a second skin. The man was unconscious, his pulse dangerously low, but stable. She cleaned the wound, started stitching, wondering how a man like that ends up bleeding in a hospital with no one claiming him. Ten minutes in, his hand twitched. Her head jerked up. His eyes opened—deep, cold, and sharp like the blade of something expensive and deadly. “Don’t call anyone,” he said, voice hoarse and low. Ray froze. “Uh… sir, you’ve been shot. That’s not exactly something you keep to yourself.” He grabbed her wrist. Strong, but not threatening. “No police. No name. Just fix it.” There was something in his eyes. Something dangerous. Something… broken. She wanted to say no. To press the emergency call button. But something in her gut—something stupid and wildly unprofessional—held her back. So she nodded. “Alright, Mr. Mystery Bullet Wound. I’ll fix you up. But you owe me dinner. At least something with fries.” He didn’t laugh. He didn’t blink. He just laid back and let her save him. And that’s how she met him. Maddox Red. The man the world knew as a billionaire tech mogul, a reclusive genius, and possibly something far, far darker. But to her? For now? He was just Mr. Sin.