Her fingers were cold through the latex as she unwrapped the shoulder bandage. I could feel the slight tremor in them, though she tried to hide it. Exhaustion or fear? Both, probably.
"No infection," she murmured, probing the wound edges with gentle pressure. "Healing well. The sutures are holding. You got lucky."
She moved to the knife wound, peeling back the tape with careful movements. Her breath caught slightly—so quiet I almost missed it. The wound had opened slightly. A thin line of blood had dried along the suture line.
"You've not been careful," she said. Not a question.
"Not my strong suit."
She didn't respond, just cleaned the wound with antiseptic that burned like acid. I didn't flinch. She noticed that too—I could tell by the slight pause in her movements.
"My name is Konstantin Besharov," I said, breaking the clinical silence. "Kostya. I wanted you to know who you saved."
Her hands paused on my skin, just for a second. The touch lingered a heartbeat too long before she continued working, applying fresh gauze with unnecessary focus.
"I don't need to know," she said, but her voice had lost some of its clinical edge. "This is what I do. You paid. We're even."
"Are we?" I watched her face, saw the micro-expressions she couldn't quite control. The tightening around her eyes. The way she pressed her lips together. "Because from where I'm sitting, saving someone's life creates a different kind of debt."
"There's no debt." She started rebandaging with too-quick movements, like she was racing against something. "I'm a doctor. Or I was. This is just . . . reflexes. Muscle memory. Nothing more."
"You are a doctor," I corrected. "License or no license."
She froze completely then, hands still on the bandage roll. Her eyes snapped to mine, wide with something between fear and shock.
"How did you—"
"I didn't. Until now." I kept my voice gentle, non-threatening. "But someone that skilled doesn't learn in basements. You were trained. Properly trained. And something happened that put you here."
She jerked back, putting distance between us like I'd become dangerous. The bandage roll clattered to the floor.
"That's not your concern," she said, voice sharp now, defensive. "You're done. Wounds are healing. Take antibiotics for four more days. Keep the sutures dry. Don't come back."
I didn't move from the table. "You're in trouble."
It wasn't a question, and she knew it. Her whole body went rigid, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Fight or flight response, barely contained.
"Everyone in Brighton Beach is in trouble," she said. "That's why we're here instead of somewhere else."
"This is different." I pulled my shirt back on slowly, watching her track my movements like a spooked animal. "Someone's hunting you. Someone specific."
"Stop."
"You've been running for a while. Months, maybe more. You're exhausted. You're scared. And you're alone."
"Stop." Louder this time, with an edge of panic.
"Whoever it is, they're connected. They have resources. They—"
"I said stop!" The words exploded from her, raw and desperate. She pressed herself against the wall, as far from me as the small space allowed. "You don't know anything. You don't know who I am or what I've done or why I'm here. You got your medical care. You're healed enough to survive. We're done. Don't come back."
Her chest heaved with rapid breaths, and for a moment, I saw past the clinical mask to the terrified woman underneath. Someone had hurt her. Badly. Someone had taken her life apart piece by piece until all that was left was this—a basement clinic and the constant fear of being found.
The monster in my chest wanted to find whoever had done this and take them apart slowly. Make them understand what real fear felt like. But that wouldn't help her now. She needed something else. Something I didn't know how to give.
"Okay," I said quietly, sliding off the table. "I won't come back."
The relief on her face was immediate and painful to see. She moved to the door, hand on the locks, ready to secure them the moment I left. I walked past her, close enough to catch her scent—antiseptic and exhaustion and something sweet underneath, like vanilla.
