The clinic smells like bleach and blood. Always the same. I push through the narrow hallway and slip into the staff locker room.
People move around me—pulling on scrubs, tying their hair back, lacing up gloves—but no one says a word. The only sounds are zippers, the snap of latex, the metallic slam oflockers shutting one after the other. Everyone here works like a machine. Efficient and silent.
I slide my bag into my locker and pull out my clean scrubs. As I change, the silence presses harder, until it feels like I’m suffocating inside it. I miss what it’s like to laugh with someone, to talk until the hours blur, to have a friend who sees me.
I miss Violet.
She and I used to share everything back in med school. Study sessions that went until sunrise. Coffee runs on zero sleep. Secrets whispered into pillows. Even after I dropped out, we stuck together as roommates for a while.
Until my breakup with Anton.
He was a Bratva soldier with too much charm and too many promises. He blew my life apart piece by piece until the only way out was to run. Chicago was supposed to be my fresh start, my escape. The breakup was ugly, brutal in ways I don’t let myself replay too often. But the vow I made still stands: never again. Never another Bratva soldier.
Sometimes I wonder about Violet and Kaz, though. I hear things, how happy they are, how it actually worked out for them. They’re the exception, not the rule. And I can’t afford to believe in exceptions.
I tie my scrub top, shut my locker, and step out into the corridor. Work waits.
I don’t make it three steps before the door bursts open. Two Bratva soldiers storm in, dragging a bleeding man between them. His shirt is soaked scarlet, his breath wet and ragged, and the metallic stink of blood floods the room like a wave.
“Table. Now.” One of them barks it at me, but I don’t need the order. I’m already moving.
They haul him onto the gurney, blood smearing across the stainless steel. He groans, hand twitching toward the wound in his side, but I slap on gloves and push his arm away.
No questions. That’s the first rule. Always.
The past year has drilled it into me: patch them up, keep them breathing, and don’t you dare ask how the bullet got there. Curiosity is dangerous currency here, and I’ve learned to live broke.
I grab the scissors and slice open his shirt. The hole in his abdomen is dark, pulsing, and deep. A gunshot wound. Bullet’s still inside.
“Clamp,” I mutter, though no one offers help. They never do. The soldiers stand back, eyes cold and sharp, as if daring me to fail. I work fast, steady, blocking out the sound of his uneven gasps. I’ve sewn enough flesh in this place to know the rhythm—cut, clamp, pull, stitch. My hands move on muscle memory.
I steady my breath, lock the memory away, and dig in with the forceps. The bullet scrapes against the metal with a sickening sound. The man groans, his body bucking, but I press harder, unflinching, until the small piece of lead comes free.
I drop it into the tray.Clink.
His blood still runs hot and fast, but I’m already stitching, my fingers sure and efficient.
I’m almost finished wrapping his side when my phone buzzes against the steel counter. I glance down. A single text glows on the screen. It’s from a restricted number, and it says, “You are being watched.”
The breath catches in my throat. My gloves are sticky with blood, but the chill that slides down my spine has nothing to do with the mess on my hands. A restricted number means I can’t reply. I can’t call back. Whoever sent it wants me to read it, sit with it, and wonder.
My heart beats faster, but my face stays blank.
Fear is a luxury here.
I press the last strip of gauze into place, tape it down, and step back. “Done.”
The two soldiers move in instantly, one under each of the man’s arms, hauling him up like a rag doll. He’s barely conscious, but it doesn’t matter. Patients don’t recover here. They don’t rest. They just get sewn up, handed back their gun, and shoved into the night again.
The door bangs shut behind them, leaving only the stink of blood and antiseptic. Silence presses in, but my mind isn’t quiet.
The message burns in my mind.You are being watched.
Anton flashes through my mind, his face twisted with anger the last time I saw him. He’d hated that I left, hated that I escaped to Chicago instead of playing the loyal little doll at his side. He’d promised I’d regret it.
He couldn’t chase me down here; that’s why I came here to hide my head. Being part of the Rusnak Bratva, he couldn’t come here to cause any trouble.
This is Niko’s city.
