She was younger than I’d thought—maybe mid-twenties. Too young to have the kind of exhaustion that lived in her bones, the kind that came from seeing too much and not being able to unsee it. But she had it anyway, wore it like armor.
"Bullet's still in there," she said, and I realized she was talking about my shoulder. "Lodged against the scapula. I'm going to have to dig for it."
She didn't wait for permission or acknowledgment, just picked up forceps and went in. The pain was immediate and blinding, white-hot agony that made my vision go static. I might have screamed. Probably did. She didn't stop, just kept working with those steady hands.
"Almost . . . there." A grunt of effort, then the wet sound of metal on metal as she dropped something in a tray. "Got it. Nine millimeter, looks like. Deformed from hitting bone." She held it up to the light, examining it like it was interesting rather than evidence of violence. "You'll have matching scars now. Very symmetrical. You're welcome."
Was she . . . joking? This woman who'd just pulled a bullet out of me with her bare hands was making jokes? The absurdity of it almost made me laugh, which would have been a disaster given the state of my abdomen.
"Why?" The word came out rough, barely audible.
She paused in her suturing, looked at me directly for the first time in what felt like hours. "Why what?"
"Why are you helping me?"
She went back to her work, needle moving in and out of my flesh with mechanical precision. "You knocked on my door. You needed help. That's what I do. Plus, I’m going to charge youa lot."
"I could be anyone. Could be dangerous."
"Could be?" She actually snorted, a sound so unexpected I thought I'd imagined it. "You're six-five, built like a truck, covered in bratva tattoos, and you showed up shot and stabbed. There's no 'could be' about it. You are dangerous."
"Then why—"
"Dangerous people need medical care too." She tied off a suture with unnecessary force. "Because everyone deserves a chance to not die, even if they probably deserve to." Her voice dropped lower, almost to herself. "Because that's what I tell myself, anyway. Plus, you know, the money."
She didn't ask how I'd gotten shot. Didn't ask who I was or who I worked for. Didn't ask if more violence would be following me to her door. Just kept sewing me back together like I was a torn shirt that needed mending.
I watched her hands—small, elegant despite being raw at the knuckles, moving with absolute confidence. No wedding ring. No jewelry at all except for a watch that looked medical, the kind that could take a pulse. Her nails were short, clean, practical. Working hands. Healing hands. Though something about the way she held herself, tense and ready, suggested those hands had seen more than just healing.
"There," she finally said, stepping back. "You're closed up. You've lost a lot of blood—probably two units' worth—but not enough to kill you. You need antibiotics, pain management, and rest. Actual rest, not whatever passes for it in your world."
She stripped off her bloody gloves, threw them in a biohazard bag, then pulled a prescription pad from a drawer. Herhandwriting was precise, medical shorthand that probably only another doctor could read.
"Antibiotics," she said, handing me the paper. "Take all of them. Every last pill, even if you feel better. The wound was deep, and infection will kill you faster than your enemies will." She pulled out another bottle, shook two pills into a small envelope. "Oxycodone for the pain. Just these two—I'm not giving you more. You seem like the type to have your own sources anyway."
She was right. I did have my own sources. But I took the envelope anyway.
"Clean the wounds twice daily. Keep them dry otherwise. The sutures are absorbable, so don't try to pull them out." She rattled off the instructions in that same commanding tone, like she was used to giving orders that were followed without question. "If you spike a fever over 101, if the wounds start smelling sweet or showing red streaks, if you can't keep food down—you find a real hospital. Tell them whatever lie you need to, but get actual medical attention."
I sat up slowly, testing my body's response. Everything hurt, but it was manageable hurt. Survivable hurt. My shirt was destroyed, so she handed me a black t-shirt from a drawer—oversized, generic, the kind bought in bulk.
"How much?" I asked, pulling out my wallet. The leather was stained with blood, but the cash inside was still good.
"Eight hundred."
I counted out eight hundreds, then added four more. She watched me place them on the table, her expression unreadable.
"Eight hundred," she repeated.
"The extra is for the shirt. And the silence."
"I don't talk about my patients." She took only the original eight bills, pushed the rest back toward me. "That's included in the base price."
I stood, legs shaky but functional. The room spun once, then settled. She watched me find my balance, ready to catch me if I fell but not moving to help unless necessary. There was something about that—the way she let me maintain my dignity even when I'd been at my most vulnerable—that lodged in my chest next to the monster.
"Spasibo," I said in Russian. Thank you. The word carried more weight in my native language, more meaning than the English equivalent.
She tilted her head slightly, studying me. "You're welcome."
