II
1130 Words
Kai 'Six' Bennett never should have gone to the hospital.
The thought repeats in his head as he shoves through the side exit of St. Ellis General and into the cold night air.
The IV line dangles from his arm, half-ripped out. Blood seeps steadily through the fresh bandage wrapped tight around his ribs. Every breath feels like glass scraping the inside of his lung.
He should be on a table in cuffs.
Or dead in the street.
Instead, he’s moving.
Because stopping gets you buried.
The alley behind the hospital is dim, one flickering security light, a rusted dumpster, rainwater collecting in cracked pavement. He presses his back against the brick wall and forces himself to breathe through the pain.
Across the parking lot, two black SUVs idle without headlights.
He doesn’t need to see the men inside to know who sent them.
They’re patient.
They’re quiet.
And they don’t forgive mistakes.
He wipes blood from his mouth and lowers his hood.
They weren’t fast enough tonight.
He cuts left into the deeper part of the alley instead of heading toward the street. Never take the obvious route. His boots splash through shallow puddles as he moves through shadow after shadow.
The city at this hour is suspended between exhaustion and violence — neon signs buzzing faintly, distant sirens echoing somewhere far off. Each step pulls at the stitches in his side.
She stitched him clean.
That’s the only reason he’s upright.
Her hands hadn’t shaken.
Her voice hadn’t cracked.
Even when he had a syringe pointed at her throat.
Most people look at him and see the gun before they see the man.
She looked at him like he was work.
Like he was something she could fix.
That unsettled him more than the bullet.
He pauses at the corner of a graffitied building, bracing one hand against the wall as his vision briefly blurs.
Too much blood.
Not enough time.
He presses harder against the bandage, feeling warmth seep between his fingers. The bleeding hasn’t stopped — it’s just slowed.
His jaw tightens.
And then the memory hits him again.
The butterfly on her wrist.
And the name inked beneath it.
Marcus.
His body had reacted before his mind caught up in the trauma room. That name carved itself into him years ago.
Marcus wasn’t random.
Marcus had been part of something bigger.
The night the streets shifted.
The night loyalties were tested.
The night bullets flew for reasons that never made the papers.
And now Marcus’s sister is the one who stitched him back together.
Of all the hospitals in the city.
Of all the nurses on shift.
It had to be her.
But she’d saved hid life.
That meant he owed her.
And owing someone in his world… was the same as putting a target on their back.
A car engine revs too close for comfort.
Kai straightens instantly, his breathing steadies, controlled despite the pain.
The engine fades. A delivery truck. Nothing more.
Still, he moves.
Pain is temporary.
Being caught is permanent.
Three blocks south, he reaches an abandoned rowhouse that looks ready to collapse. Boarded windows. Weeds splitting through concrete. The kind of place no one looks twice at.
Perfect.
He unlocks the side door and slips inside.
The air smells like dust and gun oil.
He locks the door behind him and leans against it briefly as the room tilts. Darkness creeps at the edges of his vision.
He pushes off the door and moves to the folding table in the center of the room. A duffel bag sits beneath it — cash, burner phones, medical supplies.
He peels off his hoodie slowly.
The fabric sticks to dried blood.
When he lifts his shirt, the bandage is already soaked through.
A quiet curse leaves his lips.
He sits heavily in the metal chair and peels the gauze back.
The stitches are tight. Precise. Professional.
She saved his life.
Even when he threatened her.
She didn’t hesitate.
That kind of composure doesn’t come from nowhere.
It comes from loss.
Marcus.
The name refuses to leave him alone.
When he saw it inked on her skin, something inside him shifted — something he hasn’t let himself feel in years.
Does she know what really happened that night?
Does she think men like him just wake up and choose who doesn’t get to go home?
The streets are never that simple.
But explanations don’t bring people back.
He cleans the wound again, wraps fresh gauze around his ribs, and pulls it tight. His jaw locks as pain spikes through his chest.
Then he pushes to his feet and walks to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall.
His reflection looks hollow.
Skin pale beneath the brown.
Eyes darker than usual.
Blood dried in streaks across his ribs.
Alive.
That complicates things.
Because if those SUVs were outside the hospital, then the circle is tightening.
And if they saw him go inside...
They’ll check cameras.
They’ll question staff.
They’ll find her.
His expression hardens.
He didn’t go there for her.
He went because the bullet was too close to his lung.
Because his own crew’s patch job wouldn’t have been enough this time.
But now she’s involved.
And she doesn’t even know it.
The only thing she probably knew about him was the name "Six".
His gangster name was what he had given her.
He powers on a burner phone.
No messages yet.
That won’t last.
The streets talk fast.
Someone will report he was hit.
Someone will mention St. Ellis.
Someone will describe the nurse.
He shouldn’t care.
He tells himself he doesn’t.
But her face keeps replaying in his mind.
Standing over him.
Unflinching.
Telling him to bleed out if he wanted to.
There was no fear in her voice.
Only history.
And if she ever learns how his history intersects with Marcus?
That calm will turn into something sharp enough to cut.
He steps back from the window carefully.
Blood loss is catching up — a faint dizziness creeping in again.
He needs rest.
A few hours at most.
Then he moves before dawn.
Before they regroup.
Before they circle back to the hospital.
Before they decide to question the nurse who stitched him back together.
He lowers himself into the metal chair again, pressing his palm against his ribs.
He didn’t mean to drag her into this.
But fate doesn’t ask permission.
And something tells him this isn’t the last time he’ll see her.
Not with Marcus’s name written across her skin.
Not with the way she looked at him like she could see through every layer he’s built.
Kai closes his eyes for just a moment.
Because in his world—
If you sleep too long,
you don’t wake up.
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