Chapter Two
408 Words
[Later That Night – Cynrim's Apartment]
The room stank of blood, sweat, and metal.
Cynrim's fingers moved fast too fast guided by years of muscle memory and panic suppression. The couch beneath her was soaked through. Gauze piled up, instruments scattered across her coffee table. She'd converted this small, plant-filled apartment into a surgical field without a second thought.
Thank God she'd kept her old equipment
a kit she used to practice complex sutures and emergency drills on after long shifts. Just in case. She never thought it would be used on a real, bleeding man in her living room.
But here she was.
Cut. Clamp. Stitch. Again.
She could feel him watching her.
He was still awake.
That was the part that rattled her.
Most men would've passed out halfway through. She'd cut deep. Dug in. Reset a shattered rib with her knee braced against his side. She felt the crunch through her bones.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't curse.
Didn't look away.
He just stared. Blood slicked across his skin, muscles clenched, teeth gritted, eyes sharp like a blade that hadn't dulled in the slightest. A predator bleeding out... still too dangerous to turn your back on.
"You should be unconscious," she muttered, mostly to herself.
No response. Not even a twitch. Just that slow, calculated breath through his nose.
Zayev was silent behind her. Leaning against the fridge. His expression unreadable.
Cynrim snapped. "Why didn't you take him to a hospital?"
"Because hospitals report bullet wounds," Zayev said flatly. "And he can't be seen. Not there. Not anywhere."
She bit down a thousand questions.
This wasn't a mugging. This was an execution gone wrong. The bullets were placed with purpose. Brutal, but clean. Close range. Meant to kill.
But somehow... he was still here.
She tied off the last of the gauze. Her arms ached. Her robe was soaked. The blood wouldn't come off her hands.
She looked down at him again.
Built like war. Skin scarred, muscles rigid with pain and control. He wasn't just strong. He was trained. Disciplined. Like every part of him had been through fire and came out steel.
His eyes finally drifted shut. But only halfway. Like he was still half-hunting something.
She stood slowly, knees cracking. The weight of what just happened hit her like a delayed punch to the gut.
And even as she stepped away, she felt it:
He was still awake.
Still listening.
Still surviving.
- Writer
