"Sir?" The word comes out startled, but he's already moving, setting down the clipboard and reaching for equipment. Whatever shock he felt disappears behind professionalism. "Contamination?"
"Severe. Microplastics and opioids. At least two hours symptomatic."
Maximus lays me down on the table, his movements careful despite his strength. The surface is cool against my back, but I'm too weak to shiver.
"Stay still," he says to me, then to the human: "Monitor her vitals. I'll handle the blood."
The man attaches sensors to my chest with quick, professional motions. His hands are steady now, the initial surprise locked away. "I'll need samples once she's stabilized."
"Dr. Dalton handles medical needs for my people," Maximus adds, handing me a blood bag. "Do what he tells you."
He moves to the fridge and pulls out a blood bag, checking the label with the same precision he seems to apply to everything. Then he hands it to me.
"Drink," he says. "Slowly. Your system is compromised. Too fast and you'll just vomit it back up."
I take the bag with shaking hands. The blood inside is rich red, not the murky dark color of the contaminated bag. I can smell the difference; clean, pure, free of the chemical tang.
I pierce the bag with my fangs and drink.
The relief is immediate and overwhelming. It hits my system like cool water on burned skin, like oxygen after drowning. The black veins under my skin start to recede, slowly but visibly. The numbness in my extremities begins to fade. My thoughts clear, sharpening back into focus.
I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until it started getting better.
"Not too fast," Maximus warns, watching me with those ancient gray eyes.
I force myself to slow down, to take measured sips instead of gulping. It's hard. Every cell in my body is screaming for more, faster,now. But I listen to him.
When the bag is empty, I lower it, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes." My voice is steady now, no longer rasping. "Thank you."
He inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the gratitude without commenting on it.
"You'll need more," he says. "But we'll space it out. Let your system process the contamination properly. You'll stay here tonight. Possibly longer, depending on how quickly you recover."
"Stay here," I repeat. "In your… sanctuary."
"Yes."
"Why?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. Why help me?"
He's quiet for a moment, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. But I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to break.
"You didn't beg," he finally says. "You didn't grovel or promise me things you couldn't deliver. You were honest about what you are and what you've lost. And when faced with death, you insulted me instead of pleading."
"That's it?" I ask incredulously. "You saved my life because I have a bad attitude?"
Something flickers across his face; that almost-smile again.
"I saved your life," he says quietly, "because I haven't metanyone interesting in a very long time. And you, Celeste Moreau, are interesting."
Before I can respond to that, before I can even begin to process what it means, he moves toward the door.
"Rest," he says. "I'll return in an hour with another bag. Don't leave this room."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
