The rain had been falling steadily since evening, coating the empty streets of Florence with a silver sheen. By the time Larah stepped out of the hospital doors, the clock had already struck nine. Her shift had finally ended, and though exhaustion weighed on her shoulders, she managed a tired but cheerful smile at her colleagues.
"Bye! See you all tomorrow," she called out, waving as she slung her bag over her shoulder.
The night air was cool, the rain drizzling against her umbrella as she made her way toward the parking lot. The city was unusually quiet; very few people were out walking at that hour, and the sound of her heels against the wet pavement echoed through the silence. She sighed in relief, glad the long day was finally over.
But the moment she reached her car, everything changed.
Her breath caught in her throat when she noticed a figure slumped beside her vehicle. At first, she thought it was a drunkard or perhaps someone unconscious. Then the glow of the streetlamp revealed crimson stains spreading across the man's shirt. Blood.
Larah's heart skipped a beat. "Oh my God!" she gasped, dropping her umbrella and rushing forward. "Are you okay? What happened to you?"
The man stirred, his face pale, his breaths ragged. When she reached out to steady him, his hand shot up and gripped her wrist with surprising strength despite his injuries.
"Who… do you think you are?" he rasped, his voice low and sharp, laced with both pain and warning.
Larah froze for a moment but quickly steadied herself. "I'm Larah. I'm a nurse. Don't worry—I can help you."
He shook his head, his grip trembling yet insistent. "Don't. Don't get involved. You don't know what you're doing."
But Larah ignored the warning. She crouched down, pulling tissues and a small first-aid kit she always carried in her bag. "You're bleeding badly. If I leave you here, you'll die," she whispered firmly, pressing the cloth against the wound in his side.
The man stared at her, stunned. He wasn't used to this—someone risking themselves just to help him. The warmth of her stubborn determination disarmed him more than the pain did. For a fleeting second, he almost forgot the world of blood and violence he came from.
Before Larah could say more, angry shouts cut through the rain.
"Find him! He's close!" a group of men yelled in the distance. Their footsteps echoed as they drew nearer.
Larah's pulse quickened. She glanced at the stranger's wounds, then at the shadows moving toward them. "Oh no… Were you in a fight? Your hand—oh God, you've been shot! We should call the police—"
"No!" he snapped, his voice harsh despite the pain. His eyes locked onto hers, dark and urgent. "You can't. It's too late. And now… you're involved."
Before she could argue, a voice roared from behind her.
"There you are! Mr. Ethan, your time is up. You're going to die tonight!"
Larah's entire body went cold. She spun around, coming face to face with a man raising his gun. Her lips parted, a scream caught in her throat.
"And kill the woman too—"
The gunman never finished. A single shot rang out, piercing the night. The man dropped to the ground instantly, blood pooling beneath his head.
Larah's eyes widened in horror. She turned, trembling, to see the wounded stranger—Ethan—holding a smoking gun in his hand.
Her breath came in sharp gasps. "Wh-what… what is this?! Who are you?" She stumbled back, her hands shaking.
Before she could scream, Ethan reached out and struck the back of her head with the butt of his gun. The world tilted, darkness swallowing her as she fell unconscious in the rain.
When Larah finally stirred, her head throbbed with pain. She groaned softly, pressing her hand to the back of her skull. The bright, sterile smell around her told her she was in a hospital—but something was wrong. This wasn't the hospital where she worked.
"Where… am I?" she muttered, struggling to her feet. Her memories of the night before rushed back in fragments—the bleeding man, the gun, the body falling at her feet.
Panic set in. She pushed open the door and stumbled into the corridor. At the reception desk, a woman looked up in surprise.
"Miss Larah, you're awake," the receptionist said kindly. "Please wait. I'll call Mr. Ethan."
Larah froze. Mr. Ethan? The name sent a chill down her spine. Her heart raced as the pieces connected—Ethan, the man from last night, the man who had killed in front of her.
"Oh my God…" she whispered, her face draining of color. Without another word, she turned and bolted down the hallway.
"Miss Larah, wait!" the receptionist called after her, but Larah didn't stop. She ran out of the building into the cool morning air, her mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion.
An hour later, a black car pulled up outside the same hospital. The staff stiffened as a tall man stepped inside. His presence alone radiated power and menace.
"Where is she?" Ethan demanded, his deep voice slicing through the silence.
The receptionist bowed her head nervously. "Mr. Ethan… Miss Larah woke up earlier, but she left in a hurry. She seemed… frightened."
Ethan exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. Pulling out his phone, he dialed a number.
"Marco," he said coldly when the line connected. "Find the woman. Track her down. Don't let the mouse escape."
He ended the call, sliding
the phone back into his pocket. His eyes hardened, the softness Larah had stirred in him gone without a trace. Then he turned and walked out, disappearing into the storm that had begun again.