Bullets And Butterflies

Midnight at St. Ellis General was always a gamble. Some nights it was the usual—drunks, overdoses, and the occasional domestic gone wrong. But other nights… other nights bled like hell itself was leaking through the ER doors. The automatic doors whooshed open with a gust of wind that made her scalp tighten. Then came the blood. He stumbled in, shirt soaked, one hand pressed to his side, the other gripping the wall as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The moment her eyes locked on his, the world tilted. Tall. Dangerous. Bleeding. A shadow carved out of the night. The man didn’t look like someone who should’ve been alive, let alone walking. Yet there he was, leaving a smeared trail of red along the tiled floor, head bowed, dark curls damp with sweat and God knew what else. "Help!" Zariah snapped to the nearest nurse. “Get a gurney—now!” She was already moving, adrenaline punching through her veins. She reached him just as his knees buckled. She caught his weight with a grunt, his blood hot through her scrubs. "Don’t you dare die on me," she whispered, heart hammering. His eyes fluttered open—wild, molten, feral. No fear. No pain. Just fire. “Don't let me...,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear before he passed out cold. And just like that, she knew: this man would change everything. In the trauma room, her hands were steady. Gloved. Bloody. Focused. Bullet wound, right side. Clean entry, shallow exit. He was lucky, or skilled. Either way, he needed saving. She could do that. As she worked, her eyes kept flicking to his face. The lines there weren’t soft. They were carved from something older than time. His tattoos told stories she couldn’t read, and the calluses on his fingers weren’t from construction. He wasn’t a victim. He was a storm that had wandered in wearing a mortal wound. “What’s his name?” a nurse asked. Zariah swallowed. She had no idea. But her gaze lingered on the gunmetal tattoo inked above his collarbone. “Let’s just keep him alive,” she muttered. “The rest can wait.” The blood wouldn’t stop. It soaked the white sheets, spilled over the edge of the bed, and pooled onto the ER floor. Zariah Cole didn’t flinch. She pressed harder, elbows locked, palms slick with heat and pressure and someone else’s panic. “Pressure pack—please!” she barked. The med techs moved around her like shadows, faceless and fast, but Zariah’s eyes were still locked on the strange man bleeding out beneath her. He was young. Mid-to-late twenties. Muscular build. No wallet. No ID. No name. He hadn’t said a word again since he was brought to the trauma room. But his eyes were open—dark, sharp, and locked on her like she’d done something wrong. “Chest wound’s deep,” she muttered to herself. “Nicked the lung, maybe—” The man coughed violently, a wet, rattling sound. Blood flecked his lips. Zariah leaned closer. “Can you tell me your name? Anything at all?” Nothing. His eyes burned into her, and for a second, Zariah swore she saw a flicker of something… not pain. Not fear. Recognition. Her breath caught. Had she seen him before? She looked down, instinctively adjusting the surgical glove on her left hand, and that’s when his gaze dropped to her wrist. To the small black ink butterfly hidden beneath the elastic. A name written across it: Marcus His entire body jerked like she’d shot him again. Zariah opened her mouth to say something, anything, but in that split second, he moved. Not much, just his fingers twitching toward the tray beside him. She reached for the syringe to sedate him, but he beat her to it. He grabbed it, yanked it free, and held it like a blade. “Don’t touch me,” he rasped, voice raw like gravel and smoke. “Sir—” “I said don’t touch me.” Alarms blared as his vitals spiked. The techs froze. Zariah didn’t. She stepped into the danger. “Then bleed out,” she whispered, unshaken. It was men like these that got her brother killed years ago. “The floor is already ruined. But if you’re determined to die in my trauma room, at least give me a name so I don't have to label your body bag 'John Doe'.” The syringe trembled in his grip. Sweat poured from his brow. Finally, his shoulders slumped. He let the needle fall. “...Six.” Zariah blinked. “What?” “That’s what they call me.” She caught the name in a mental vise. Six. Short. Sharp. Dangerous. He closed his eyes like the effort cost him everything. Seconds later, he passed out cold. ---- Hours later, sirens wail outside. Police. Of course. Gunshot wounds never come alone. Two officers push into the ER, sharp and impatient. “We got a report of a male with a GSW. Where is he?” “Trauma Room Two,” a nurse answered. Zariah returned back to the trauma room, her hands were still shaking, but her face was stone. But once inside she froze. “Where’s he?” she asked , shocked to find his bed empty. The med tech looked pale. “He woke up while we were securing him. Tore everything out and ran.” “Ran?” Zariah repeated. “He shouldn’t have been able to stand.” But he did. Of course he did. The police storm in seconds later, too late. “He left,” She tells them evenly. “With a fresh bullet wound?” “Yes.” They leave frustrated. Zariah’s heart thudded. That man had a hole in his chest and still moved like death couldn’t catch him. She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know where he went. Didn’t want to see him again. And she hoped she never does. She quickly changed out of her blood-soaked scrub top in the locker room, staring at her reflection. Her wrist catches the light. Marcus. She traces the butterfly with her thumb. Marcus was her brother. Marcus was shot outside a corner store five years ago by men who never had to answer for it. Men with eyes like 'Six'. Men who never looked afraid. Zariah swallowed hard and forced herself back into nurse mode. But outside the ER, two black SUVs slowed at the far end of the parking lot. Tinted windows. No headlights. Waiting. Watching. War was coming. And Zariah? She’d just unknowingly chosen a side.