Let's Get Wed or You're Dead

CH 6: A Hero

CHAPTER 6

Samantha waited.

She stayed at the edge of the street like a normal civilian who was just witnessing the street disturbance like everyone else. She watched them load the wounded man onto the stretcher and the white-shirted stranger kept his hand pressed onto the wound until the very last second, only stepping back when a paramedic firmly took over. But the man was giving instructions and the other was nodding his head.

She didn't waste time analyzing the scene more, and she went to get to her car. She followed the ambulance with her men. She sat at the back as George and Dran sat in the front. Their focus was sharp, eyes flicking between mirrors and traffic. Two of her other men rode close in another vehicle behind them. The rest spread out in loose formation.

Samantha leaned back against the leather seat, eyes half-lidded, mind anything but calm.

The siren wailed ahead of them.

-----

At the hospital, everything moved fast and loudly. Gurneys rolled out. Shoes squeaked against polished floors. Orders snapped through the air. Samantha did not go inside. She remained in the car, parked with a clear view of the entrance, watching people at the hospital doors going in and out.

She saw him again.

The man from the street earlier. The one in white.

The gurney burst through the hospital doors, wheels rattling as orderlies pushed it toward the operating wing.

Alesandrie stayed at the wounded man's side, matching the stretcher's pace, his hands hovering close as if ready to intervene again at any second.

"Gunshot wound to the chest," he said to the staff moving alongside them. "Entry looks clean, but he's losing blood fast. BP was dropping on the way here."

One of the nurses nodded and relayed the information ahead. They reached the doors to the operating area when another doctor stepped into his path. This one was his senior, who knew him well enough to read the tension in his shoulders.

"Andrie," the doctor said, placing a steady hand on his arm. "We've got it from here."

Alesandrie shook his head slightly, already turning back toward the gurney. "I'll take the lead. I stabilized him onsite. I know how much blood he's lost."

"You don't need to," the other doctor replied evenly. "The trauma team is ready. OR-3 is prepped. This isn't on you anymore."

Alesandrie stopped walking.

For a moment, the noise of the corridor dulled. He looked at the man on the stretcher, who was now pale and whose eyes were barely open. His chest was rising from shallow breaths.

"I can stay," Alesandrie said. "The seminar can wait."

His colleague sighed patiently but insisted. "You'll be running late as it is. And you know how this works. You did your part. Let us do ours."

Alesandrie's fingers curled slowly, then loosened. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it messier than before. Then he nodded. "Okay."

"And you go fix yourself," the doctor said.

The gurney began to move again, guided by nurses toward the swinging doors. Alesandrie walked with it for two more steps, then stopped as the doors closed, sealing the operating room away.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, hands still stained red.

The other doctor tapped his shoulder. "Go clean up, Dr. Reiyu. You look like you've been through a war."

Alesandrie let out a slow breath. "I'll leave it all to you." He moved and turned away from the operating wing. He got back to the emergency area. There were people right at the entrance that called for his attention with their mics and cameras flashing. But he didn't spare them a glance as he continued to the other corridor to his own office. The security would take care of them and some police that gathered around.

Inside his office, he shut the door and leaned briefly against it, eyes closing for just a second longer than necessary.

Only then did he move towards the cabinet against the wall and grab a fresh shirt. He entered the restroom connected with the shower. He looked at himself in the mirror. His disheveled look with the messy hair, blood-stained shirt, and sticky face from sweat. But he wasn't bothered by his appearance. He was more disturbed upon hearing the cracked sound of a gun earlier, and he couldn't even believe in himself that he actually saved that man. He had just realized that what he did was totally dangerous. If the shooter proceeded to finish the victim, he could have been shot too for aiding their target.

Alesandrie sighed. At least the worst didn't happen. He was safe and sound. He unbuttoned his shirt. He decided to take a shower to completely wash off what he encountered in the street.

-----

Samantha was still inside the car.

The tinted glass framed the hospital entrance like a distant stage, and all she could do was watch the commotion unfold from the outside. Officers moved in and out with a rigid purpose, their presence expected. A shooting in the middle of a public street demanded authority and attention. It was exactly how her uncle wanted it. Loud and visible. A warning wrapped in spectacle, meant to echo through every traitor foolish enough to believe they could dismantle the company from within.

The police made sense.

One or two reporters would have made sense too.

But as Samantha observed the scene, it became clear that this was something else entirely. Media vans crowded the curb. Cameras clustered like carrion birds. Voices rose, excited and hungry, rehearsing narratives.

Dran slid into the front seat and turned slightly, lowering his voice. "They're trying to interview the man who interfered," he said. "They're calling him a hero."

Samantha's gaze didn't leave the hospital doors.

Dran continued, "The press seems to know him. He's a doctor. Well-known, maybe. But he refused every interview. Didn't even slow down for them. Walked straight further inside."

Her fingers stilled against the door.

A doctor.

Something inside her shifted, slow and precise, like a lock finally turning. She replayed the street in her mind. The way he moved without hesitation. The certainty in his hands. The calm under pressure. The instincts that did not belong to a passerby.

"Of course he was a doctor." She mumbled through gritted teeth and scoffed at the situation.

The suspicion she had brushed aside earlier settled into clarity. He knew exactly what he was doing. Exactly how to keep alive a man who should have died on that pavement.

A humorless thought flickered through her mind. Of all possibilities. Of all timings. To place an execution in broad daylight, in the middle of a city, with a doctor within reach.

Fate, it seemed, had a sense of irony.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, jaw tightening. Her uncle wanted a message sent. Instead, the city had been given a hero.

"George," she said quietly.

The driver turned his head just enough to listen.

"Make the call," Samantha ordered. "I want everything from that ignorant doctor. Background, relationships, reputation. Anything."

George nodded and reached for his phone.

Samantha leaned forward slightly, eyes hard as they fixed on the hospital entrance. The flashing lights painted brief colors across the glass, red and blue cutting through the afternoon.

Her glare sharpened.

This wasn't over.