Caelia
1378 Words
She didn’t hear the blade before she saw it.
Not clearly, anyway.
The night had already been too quiet. The kind of quiet that clung to your skin and made you feel like something had gone wrong even before it had. She hadn’t meant to be there. The alley wasn’t the route she normally took back. But the pharmacy on her street had closed early, and her shoulder had been aching again.
So she went walking.
And then she heard the struggle.
A man. Older. Cornered. Two shadows in front of him. Sharp movements. Flickers of silver.
Knives.
For a heartbeat, Caelia froze.
She could’ve walked away. Should’ve. Her bruised ribs hadn’t healed from last week, and her wrist still ached when she closed her fingers too tightly. But that instinct inside her—the one that didn’t know how to stand still—snapped forward before logic caught up.
---
The first man didn’t even see her coming.
She grabbed a broken beer bottle from the ground. Glass tore through her palm, but she didn’t stop. She plunged it into the neck of the one closest to the older man—Dmitri, though she didn’t know his name then.
Warmth splashed her face.
She moved on adrenaline. Took a hit to the side—hard enough to knock her to the wall—but ducked the second man’s swing, kicked his knee in, and slammed her elbow into his jaw. He stumbled. She caught the nearest piece of wood, cracked it across his back.
Both dropped.
She was panting. Bleeding. Hands shaking.
But she stayed standing.
---
She turned to the older man.
Blood was seeping through his coat. His eyes were hard, but dim. Not scared. But slipping.
She didn’t speak.
She grabbed his arm, hooked it over her shoulder, and dragged him out of the alley.
He didn’t ask for her name. Didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
She didn’t call anyone she knew.
She called the emergency line.
Gave the street name. Told them the man was still breathing. Didn’t tell them who he was.
Didn’t know.
Her fingers were sticky with blood when she hung up.
Her knees nearly buckled by the time the ambulance arrived, but she didn’t let herself fall.
The paramedics looked between her and him with uncertainty—trying to decide who the real patient was.
He was rushed inside.
She wasn’t asked to follow.
She followed anyway.
---
The private wing of the hospital didn’t welcome her.
No one said it out loud, but she felt it.
The nurses glanced at her wounds, her torn blouse, the dried streaks of red on her collar. Their lips pressed tight. Their gazes slid past her like she was just... clutter. Trouble.
She was handed a cold metal bench outside a door with no number.
That was it.
No blanket.
No water.
No questions.
She sat with her back straight.
She didn’t need warmth. She just needed to breathe.
She didn’t regret what she did.
But now that the adrenaline was gone, she felt the weight of it.
The ache in her ribs was spreading.
The gash on her hip had soaked through half her shirt.
Her wrist throbbed—swollen, maybe fractured.
Still, she didn’t ask for help.
She pressed the heel of her hand to her ribs and focused on breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
The hallway stayed empty. Time blurred.
Every second felt like a slow exhale she didn’t take.
She didn’t know how long it had been—ten minutes, thirty?
She wasn’t tracking time.
Just pain.
And how it made her feel more real than she had in days.
But then… something shifted.
The stillness cracked.
She felt it before she saw him.
The presence. The tension.
Like the air suddenly had weight.
Footsteps. Polished. Sharp. Controlled.
Her gaze lifted.
---
He walked like someone who didn’t get told no.
Four men in black followed him, spaced perfectly.
The one in front—him—didn’t even glance around.
He didn’t need to.
The hospital bowed around him without asking.
Black suit, white shirt, no tie.
Buttons gleaming faintly under the cold light.
He looked like money. Like command. Like silence in human form.
His hair was slicked back, precise, but not soft.
His jaw was clenched tight—unreadable.
And his scent hit her like a slow wave.
Smoky. Spiced. Cold.
It wrapped around the hallway the second he entered, and she knew.
This was his son.
---
He didn’t ask the nurses.
Didn’t check the room.
His eyes landed on her like a blade.
And stayed there.
---
“Who are you?”
No emotion. No warmth. Not even suspicion.
Just… emptiness.
She stood slowly.
Blanket sliding off her shoulder.
“I was with him,” she said.
Her voice was rough. Not from fear. From use.
“When it happened.”
His eyes flicked down. Her bloodied clothes. Bare feet. Messy hair.
Then back up.
No softness. No thank you.
He flicked his fingers.
A man stepped forward, briefcase in hand.
Click.
The smell of fresh cash. Neat stacks, untouched.
“Take it,” the man said.
She looked down at the money.
Didn’t move.
“I don’t want money.”
His eyes narrowed a degree. Not shocked. Just... registering.
“Everyone wants something.”
She swallowed. Her throat was dry.
Then her fingers touched the torn edge of her top.
“Just… a shirt.”
He stared at her like he was trying to figure out what she was.
Not who.
What.
She waited. Breath tight in her throat.
Then he gestured again.
Another man stepped forward and handed her something —
a shirt. White. Freshly pressed.
Clean.
She caught it midair, the weight of it sudden against her bruised arms.
She didn’t thank him.
Didn’t owe him that.
---
He pointed. “Third door on the right.”
She nodded. Said nothing.
Turned.
The floor was freezing beneath her bare feet. Her steps were slow, limping.
But she held her chin high.
She didn’t want him to see her stumble.
---
The bathroom was small.
Too bright.
The overhead lights made every cut look worse.
Her reflection was pale. Eyes rimmed red from wind and blood. Hair tangled, skin scratched, lip swollen.
The pain didn’t scare her.
But her own face did.
She hadn’t looked at herself since that night last week.
Not after—
She forced the thought away.
---
She peeled off her ruined shirt slowly.
The dried blood clung to her skin like it belonged there.
It stung when the fabric finally came free from the gash on her ribs.
She flinched.
But didn’t cry.
She dipped her hand in the sink. Let cold water rush over her palm.
The cut had stopped bleeding.
The pain hadn’t.
---
She slipped his shirt on.
It was too big. Swallowed her completely.
The fabric was soft. Heavy. Expensive.
The sleeves fell over her hands. The hem brushed just above her knees.
The collar hung loose across her collarbones. Exposing the edge of a bruise she didn’t remember getting.
She looked like someone else.
Someone rich.
Someone clean.
Someone that man in the hallway might actually care about.
But she wasn’t.
She was still her.
Caelia Morozova.
Unknown. Unwanted. Unbroken.
---
She stepped out.
Back into the cold.
---
He was facing the ICU door, his back to her.
She saw his shoulders first. Broad. Straight. Still.
He didn’t turn when she walked up.
She stopped halfway down the hall.
“I’ll leave now,” she said softly.
He turned slowly.
His eyes moved down her body — not lecherous, not rude.
Just… cold. Calculating.
Noticing.
Her bare legs.
His shirt on her frame.
Her hair still damp at the edges.
Her wrist held protectively against her ribs.
“Your name,” he said. Flat. Direct.
She paused.
“…Caelia.”
She almost didn’t say the rest.
But something made her.
“Caelia Morozova.”
He nodded. Just once.
Didn’t say anything.
Didn’t ask for more.
Didn’t stop her.
She walked past him.
Her heart thudded like footsteps.
She didn’t look back.
But she felt his eyes.
Burning into her spine
like a question
he hadn’t decided how to ask yet.
- Writer
