POV: Emilia Conti
The ER never sleeps. It only changes moods.
At two in the morning, the fluorescent lights feel harsher, the air heavier. Everything smells like antiseptic and fatigue. The kind that seeps into your bones and stays there, even when you finally make it home.
I'd been on my feet for eleven hours already. My scrubs were stained at the hem, my hair pulled back so tightly it made my scalp ache. I hadn't eaten since noon, unless coffee counted, which it didn't—but it was all I had time for.
"Conti."
I turned at the sound of my name, already reaching for gloves. "What is it?"
Gunshot wound. Male. Early thirties. Brought in by private transport. No ID. No family. No police—yet.
That last part made my stomach tighten.
They wheeled him in fast, monitors already screaming. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage pressed to his abdomen. Whoever had tried to stop the bleeding hadn't succeeded.
"Pressure's dropping," the nurse called out.
I moved without thinking. That part of me had learned to take over years ago—the part that didn't hesitate, didn't ask questions that didn't matter.
"On three," I said. "One—two—"
We transferred him to the table. I leaned over him, hands already working, assessing damage, searching for an exit wound.
There wasn't one.
That was bad.
"BP is eighty over forty," someone said behind me.
"Prep OR two," I replied. "Call anesthesia. Now."
As they cut away his clothes, I got my first clear look at his face.
He was unconscious, but there was nothing soft about him. Sharp features. Strong jaw. A faint crease between his brows, like he frowned even in sleep. His skin was pale beneath the blood loss, but not fragile. He looked… controlled. Even like this.
A ridiculous observation. I knew that.
I'd learned not to romanticize patients. It blurred lines. It made mistakes easier.
But something about him tugged at my attention in a way I didn't like.
"The entry wound is clean," I murmured. "Close range. Whoever shot him knew where to aim."
The room quieted slightly at that.
I glanced up. "Let's move."
In the operating room, time compressed into something sharp and narrow. There was only the body on the table and the work that needed to be done. I scrubbed in quickly, hands steady, mind focused.
The bullet had torn through muscle and missed major organs by millimeters. Lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it.
"Retractor," I said.
The monitor beeped steadily now. Better.
As I worked, I became aware of his eyes opening.
Not fully. Just a slit. Gray-blue. Focused.
They found my face immediately.
"Stay with me," I said without looking up. "You're in surgery. Don't move."
His fingers twitched, then stilled. His gaze didn't waver.
There was awareness there. Calculation. Not fear.
I'd seen fear plenty of times. This wasn't it.
"You're going to be fine," I added, not because I knew it for certain, but because patients needed to hear it.
His lips parted slightly. No sound came out.
Then his eyes closed again.
The surgery lasted longer than expected, but we stabilized him. Removed the bullet. Controlled the bleeding. When we were done, I stepped back and let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"He's lucky," the anesthesiologist said.
I nodded. "Luck runs out."
I peeled off my gloves and left the room, already moving on to the next patient. That was how it worked. You saved a life, then you let it go.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work.
By the time my shift ended, the sky outside was beginning to lighten. I signed off my charts, grabbed my bag, and headed for the parking structure across the street.
My phone buzzed as I walked.
Another reminder about my overdue student loans.
I silenced it without reading the rest.
The parking structure echoed with my footsteps. Empty at this hour. Quiet in a way that made every sound feel louder than it should be.
I was halfway to my car when I heard voices.
Male. Low. Urgent.
I slowed instinctively, then stopped.
I shouldn't have. Every rational part of my brain told me to keep walking. This wasn't my business. Nothing good ever came from curiosity in places like this.
But then I recognized the voice.
It wasn't the sound so much as the cadence. Controlled. Calm.
I turned the corner.
He was standing under a flickering light, jacket open, gun in his hand.
The man from table seven.
He looked nothing like a patient now.
He moved with ease, posture relaxed, as if the weight of the weapon meant nothing to him. The man facing him—another man, younger, shaking—had his hands raised.
I froze.
Every instinct screamed at me to run.
The shot rang out before I could move.
The sound cracked through the concrete, sharp and final. The man fell, hitting the ground hard.
For a second, no one moved.
Then I was already stepping forward.
"Don't!" someone shouted.
I ignored it.
I dropped to my knees beside the fallen man, fingers pressing to his neck, searching for a pulse.
There was one. Weak. Fading.
"Call an ambulance," I snapped, looking up.
Our eyes met again.
Up close, his gaze was colder than I remembered. Assessing. Deciding.
"Move away," he said.
"He's still alive," I replied. "He needs help."
Something flickered across his face. Not guilt. Not remorse.
Interest.
"You're persistent," he said.
"Because I'm a doctor," I shot back. "And this is my job."
He studied me for a long moment. Then he swayed.
Just slightly.
I saw it immediately—the way his hand tightened at his side, the subtle hitch in his breathing.
"You're bleeding," I said.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
He took one step toward me.
Then he collapsed.
Chaos followed.
Someone cursed. Footsteps rushed forward. Hands grabbed my arms.
"Take her," a voice ordered.
I twisted, heart pounding. "Wait—he needs help. He needs—"
The world tilted as they dragged me back toward him.
As they lifted his unconscious body, his blood smeared across my hands again.
And this time, I knew—
This wasn't over.