Beauty and the Don

Mara - The cold bit through my scrubs like teeth. I pulled my jacket tighter, breath misting in the air as I pushed through the hospital's service exit. Three AM. The shift that ground you down to your bones and left you walking through the world like a ghost. My feet ached. My back screamed. But I was alive, and that was more than I could say for the man who coded in trauma bay two. The parking lot stretched ahead, a sea of ice and shadow. Snow had started falling sometime after midnight, coating everything in white lies. Pretty. Peaceful. A cemetery of cars waiting for morning shift to breathe life back into them. I dug for my keys. That's when I heard it. A sound. Wet. Ragged. Like someone drowning on dry land. I stopped. My hand found the pepper spray in my pocket. Hospital parking lots weren't safe, especially not at this hour. Especially not in this part of the city where gunshots were just background noise and bodies turned up in dumpsters more often than the trash got collected. I should have kept walking. I should have gotten in my car, locked the doors, driven home to my shoebox apartment and pretended I heard nothing. But I was a nurse. And nurses didn't walk away from sounds like that. I moved toward the dumpsters behind the loading dock. The smell hit first. Copper and rot. My stomach turned but my feet kept going. I'd smelled worse. Death had a particular perfume, and this wasn't quite there yet. The snow crunched under my boots. Then I saw him. A man. Crumpled against the brick wall like discarded trash. His white shirt was red. Not stained. Red. Soaked through. Blood pooled beneath him, turning the snow into a grotesque slushie. His head lolled forward, dark hair falling over his face. "Jesus," I whispered. I should have called 911. Should have run back inside and grabbed a trauma team. Should have done anything except what I did next. I knelt beside him. "Hey." My voice cut through the silence. "Can you hear me?" No response. I pressed two fingers to his neck. Pulse. Thready. Weak. But there. His skin was ice, body temperature dropping fast. If I left him here while I ran for help, he'd be dead before I made it back through the doors. My hands moved on autopilot. Check the airway. Clear. Breathing. Shallow but present. Circulation. That was the problem. He was bleeding out. I yanked off my jacket, pressed it against the worst of the wounds. His abdomen. Something had torn through him, leaving ragged edges that my brain catalogued as knife wounds. Multiple. Someone had meant to kill him. They'd done a decent job of it. "Stay with me," I said, applying pressure. Blood soaked through the fabric, warm against my frozen fingers. "Come on. Don't you die on me." His breath hitched. That's when I heard them. Sirens. Distance carved by cold air, but getting closer. Not an ambulance. Police. The wail was different. Sharper. More aggressive. Coming this way. The man beneath my hands stirred. A groan, low and pained. "Don't move," I said. "You're hurt. You need—" His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. The grip was weak but the intent was clear. His head lifted, and for the first time, I saw his face. Beautiful. That was my first thought. Stupid. Inappropriate. But true. Even half-dead in the snow, this man was beautiful. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Mouth carved from something cruel and perfect. And his eyes. Ice blue. They locked onto mine with an intensity that stopped my breath. "Run," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke. A warning. An order. The sirens screamed closer. "You need a hospital," I said. "I can—" "Run." Stronger this time. Desperate. His fingers tightened on my wrist, blood making his grip slick. "They'll kill you too." My heart slammed against my ribs. "Who will?" But I already knew. The knife wounds. The amount of blood. This wasn't random violence. This was execution. And whoever had done it might still be watching. The sirens turned onto our street. The man's eyes burned into mine. "Go. Now." I should have listened. I should have dropped my jacket and ran. Should have left him there and saved myself from whatever nightmare I was stumbling into. Instead, I pressed harder against the wound. "I'm not leaving you," I said. Something flickered across his face. Surprise. Maybe pain. Maybe something darker. "You should've." His voice was fading. "You should've let me die." "Not happening." I grabbed his other hand, pressed it against the jacket. "Hold this. Keep pressure on it." His fingers were cold. Too cold. I yanked out my phone, dialed 911. The operator's voice was tinny and distant. "I need an ambulance. Behind County General. Man with multiple stab wounds. He's bleeding out." The sirens were so close now. Seconds away. The man's head fell back against the brick. His eyes were still open. Still watching me. "Stupid girl," he whispered. Maybe I was. But I stayed. The ambulance came first. Then the cops. They swarmed like locusts, shouting questions I couldn't answer. What happened? Who was he? Did I see anyone? I told them the truth. I found him. I tried to help. I didn't know anything else. They loaded him onto a stretcher. The paramedics worked fast, efficient. I watched from the sidelines, my hands stained red, my jacket gone. One of the cops was talking to me. Young. Nervous. Asking the same questions in different words. I answered. Barely heard myself. Because I was watching him. The man. As they wheeled him toward the ambulance, his head turned. Those ice-blue eyes found mine through the chaos and the snow and the flashing lights. And then he spoke. So quiet I almost missed it. But I didn't. "Run."