“—What kind of idiocy is this, huh?! Are you trying to die before you even turn twenty-two?!”

Dr. Chen’s gravel-thick voice rang out in the cramped room, bouncing off the walls with every sting of the disinfectant-soaked cotton against Mark’s mangled back. The faint scent of antiseptic and sweat mixed in the air—metallic and sharp, like pennies left in the rain. Mark lay face-down on the clinic bed, shirt torn off and discarded in a bloodied heap on the floor, breath hitching with each harsh dab. His muscles twitched violently under the alcohol’s bite, tendons standing out like cables beneath his skin, but the older man didn’t show a sliver of mercy.

Christ, this stings worse than the actual beating, Mark thought, his knuckles white where they gripped the mattress edge. Every nerve ending screamed in protest, but he’d learned long ago that showing weakness only made Dr. Chen angrier—and his treatment rougher.

“—Seriously, look at you. Bruised ribs, busted lip, a damn cracked eye socket if I’m not mistaken.” Dr. Chen’s voice cracked slightly on the last words, betraying more concern than his harsh tone suggested. “Are you fighting rhinos now or just collecting hits like they’re some badge of honor?!”

The cotton swab found a particularly deep gash, and Mark’s vision went white for a moment. He bit down hard on his tongue, tasting copper, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. The pain was nothing new—he’d felt worse—but something about tonight felt different. Heavier. Like his body was finally catching up to all the damage he’d accumulated over the years.

Mark winced, breath short and ragged, his arms gripping the edge of the mattress so tightly his fingernails dug crescents into the vinyl. With a hoarse groan that scraped his throat raw, he turned his head slightly and murmured, “Doc… just… tone it down a bit, will you? You’ll wake her.“

The scolding paused just long enough for the doctor’s weathered gaze to flick toward the hallway—toward the room where Elishia lay resting—before he exhaled heavily through his nose. The sound was loaded with years of frustration, worry, and something that might have been affection if you knew how to listen for it.

“Tch.” He gestured sharply to the younger man standing stiff near the wall, his movement causing the medical tray to rattle. “And you! Who the hell are you? Where’d you find this punk? Why’s he half-dead and bleeding out all over my clinic?!”

The young man flinched like he’d been slapped, his whole body jerking backward until his shoulders hit the wall. He looked to be around Mark’s age, maybe younger, with wild auburn hair that stuck out in every direction like he’d been electrocuted and a dusting of freckles across his pale face that made him look even younger than he probably was. His eyes—a nervous hazel—shifted constantly, never settling on one spot for more than a second. His hands were half-raised like surrender, trembling slightly.

“I-I’m Reed. Reed Teller. I live two streets down from here—the blue house with the broken fence.” The words tumbled out in a rush, like he was afraid Dr. Chen would cut him off. “I found him outside my place—he was on the steps, completely out cold and bleeding. There was… there was so much blood, I thought he was dead at first.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Reed swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I-I recognized him… I mean, everyone around here does. He’s that guy who always gets into fights but somehow walks away. Some people even call him the Stray King.”

Stray King. The nickname hit Mark like a punch to the gut. He’d heard it whispered in alleys, muttered in bars, sometimes said with respect, sometimes with fear. Never with warmth. It made him sound like something wild and dangerous, something that didn’t belong anywhere.

The doctor snorted at that, clearly unimpressed. “Stray King? More like stray mutt with no sense of survival. Tch.”

He dabbed harder this time, pressing the cotton deep into a gash that had barely started to clot, and Mark jolted with a strangled groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. “Gahh—easy, easy! Shit, Doc… you’re peeling my skin off.“

“Maybe it’ll teach you not to get stomped into the ground next time!” Dr. Chen barked back, though his voice had lost some of its bite. The old man’s furrowed brow and creased forehead betrayed his worry more than his insults ever could. His hands, Mark noticed through the haze of pain, were steadier than his voice—sure and careful despite the harsh words.

The room went quiet for a moment, the only sounds were Mark’s uneven breaths whistling between his teeth, the slosh of alcohol in the metal bowl, and the occasional rustle from the medical tray. The silence was heavy, loaded with unspoken questions and fears.

Reed stood awkwardly to the side, uncertain whether to speak, sit, or disappear into the floor. He kept glancing toward Mark, then toward the hallway, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes—probably from the shock of finding a half-dead stranger on his doorstep.

Kid’s probably never seen this much blood before, Mark thought, feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy. Hell, most people haven’t.

The silence stretched until it felt like a living thing, pressing down on all of them. Reed’s mouth opened and closed several times, as if he wanted to ask something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he cleared his throat softly.

“Will… will he be okay?”

Dr. Chen’s hands paused in their work. “He’s tougher than he looks. Stupider, too, but tougher.” He resumed cleaning a particularly nasty cut. “This isn’t the first time he’s shown up here looking like he went ten rounds with a freight train.”

Try fifteen rounds, Mark thought grimly. And the freight train won.

But for now, no one asked the questions that really mattered. Questions like: Who did this to you? Why? What kind of trouble are you in now? Questions that Mark wasn’t sure he could answer even if he wanted to.

Because even as Dr. Chen cleaned up the last of the dried blood and wrapped the worst of the wounds, the unspoken tension in the room only deepened, settling into the corners like shadows that refused to be chased away by the clinic’s harsh fluorescent lights.

****

After restitching the torn wound—a gash that had reopened from Mark’s shoulder blade to his spine—and treating the new bruises, applying fresh gauze with practiced efficiency, cleaning dried blood from cuts that mapped a story of violence across his back, and rubbing ointment across blooming purple-blue welts that would darken to black by morning, Mark finally slumped into unconsciousness.

Whether from exhaustion, pain, or the sheer toll of the last few days, the doctor couldn’t tell. But for now, at least, the boy was safe. Alive. His breathing had evened out, no longer the sharp, pained gasps of consciousness but the deeper rhythm of healing sleep.

Dr. Chen let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding—a long, shaky exhale that seemed to deflate his entire body. He wiped his hands on a towel, noting absently how the white fabric came away pink with diluted blood, before picking up the bloodied instruments one by one and setting them aside for sanitization. His movements were automatic now, muscle memory from too many nights like this.

He glanced toward Reed, who still hovered near the door like an awkward, fidgeting statue. The boy had been quiet through the whole procedure, though Dr. Chen had caught him flinching at the worst parts—when Mark’s breathing had gotten too ragged, when the blood had been too fresh.

“Did you see anyone suspicious when you found him?” the old man asked gruffly, still gripping a pair of tweezers stained with dried blood.

Reed blinked and shook his head quickly. “N-no. I mean… I wasn’t looking around much. I just saw him there. Kinda hard to miss someone lying in their own blood on your doorstep.” 

The doctor gave a short grunt and nodded once. “Alright. You can head home then. Thanks for bringing him.”

Reed nodded quickly, clearly eager to escape the tension that still hung in the air like smoke. He paused at the door, hand on the handle, and looked back once more. “He… he’s really going to be okay?”

“He’s survived worse,” Dr. Chen said, though his voice was softer now. “Kid’s got more lives than a cat. Go home. Get some sleep.”

Reed slipped out with a soft creak of the door, and the clinic returned to quiet—the kind of quiet that felt heavy with secrets and unspoken truths.

Dr. Chen finally exhaled another deep sigh, the kind that made his shoulders droop and his back bend a little more under the weight of years spent caring for people who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take care of themselves. He glanced at Mark’s sleeping form, chest slowly rising and falling beneath the white sheet, and muttered to no one in particular, “You’re gonna be the death of me, you stupid kid.”

He turned, dragging his feet toward the hallway, intent on changing out of his bloodied pajamas and maybe finding a glass of something strong enough to burn away the taste of fear that had been sitting on his tongue all night.

But at the edge of the hall—right outside the storage-turned-bedroom—stood Elishia.

She clutched the doorframe with both hands, knuckles white against the wood, eyes wide in the dim lighting. The caramel-colored fabric of her borrowed pajamas hung loosely over her frame, the sleeves bunched at her elbows, making her look smaller somehow. Younger. Her hair was still unkempt from sleep, falling in dark waves around her face, and there were pillow creases on her left cheek.

The doctor stopped, not surprised in the least. He’d heard her moving around during the worst of Mark’s treatment, heard the soft creak of floorboards as she’d gotten up and moved to the door.

“With the racket earlier, I bet even the neighbors are wide awake,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “Why haven’t you gone back to bed?”

But instead of answering, Elishia softly asked, “Is he alright?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, raw with emotion she was trying to hold back. It reminded him of how she’d sounded when she’d first woken up here—lost and frightened and trying so hard to be brave.

That same breath he’d sighed earlier returned to him, now heavy with exasperation and something deeper. Something that felt like understanding.

“He’s an idiot,” Dr. Chen snapped, rubbing his temple where a headache was starting to build. “But he’s alive. Stitched and stable. So yes, for now, he’s fine.” He studied her face, noting the way her lips trembled slightly, the way her hands gripped the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “Now you—back to bed. You’re still healing.”

But Elishia didn’t move. She only shook her head, her eyes fixed toward the hall where Mark lay sleeping.

“Can I see him?”

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with meaning neither of them was ready to acknowledge. Dr. Chen stared at her for a moment, taking in the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she held herself despite the tremor in her hands. She looked like someone who’d made up her mind about something, and he’d learned over the years that arguing with determined women was usually a losing battle.

The doctor let out a gruff sigh—the third of the night, and the heaviest yet. He waved a hand tiredly, suddenly feeling every one of his sixty-five years.

“Fine. But just for a bit. Then back to bed. You hear me?”

“I understand,” she replied quietly, already moving down the hall before he could add another word or change his mind.

Dr. Chen turned away, muttering, “I swear, I’m aging ten years a day with these two.”

At this rate, I’ll be dead before the month is out, he thought as he disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Elishia to face whatever demons were driving her to Mark’s bedside in the middle of the night.

Elishia continued forward, her bare feet silent against the cool linoleum. The hallway opened into the clinic’s front section, dimly lit by a small wall light that cast long shadows across the medical equipment. She approached the white curtains that separated Mark’s bed from the rest of the room, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out and lifted them aside.

The fabric was rough against her fingertips, and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself before stepping through.

Soft, rhythmic breathing greeted her—deeper and more even than it had been earlier when Dr. Chen was working on him. She stepped in slowly, her bare feet brushing against the cool, whitewashed tile that was still slightly damp from where someone had mopped up the blood.

The first thing she saw was the gentle rise and fall of Mark’s chest beneath the sheet. Then her gaze moved upward—to the bruises on his cheek that had darkened from red to deep purple, the busted lip that had been cleaned but was still swollen, the scratches trailing down his neck like claw marks, the faint bloodstains that had yet to be wiped from his shoulder.

She had expected worse—maybe a gunshot, a missing limb, something devastating after the chaos she’d heard echoing through the clinic walls. But it was “only” reopened wounds and bruises, cuts and scrapes that painted a map of violence across his skin.

And yet she didn’t feel relieved.

Instead, a storm had begun inside her—a churning mess of emotions that she couldn’t name, couldn’t sort, couldn’t understand.

He looks so young, she thought, studying his face in the dim light. When he’s not smirking or making jokes, he looks like… like he’s barely older than me.

That day—was it only the day before yesterday?—she had thanked him. Genuinely. She had meant every syllable that had passed her lips. He’d saved her life, after all. Pulled her from that hellhole, brought her here, got her treated. Watched over her, even in his strange, mocking way that she was starting to understand might be his version of kindness.

But wasn’t he also one of them?

Wasn’t it men like him who kidnapped me in the first place?

The memory came flooding back—hands grabbing her, the smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne, the ship full with other girls like her and the way the zip ties had cut into her wrists. 

Who dragged me from my life, my city, my future? Who nearly sold me like… like I was nothing?

Her breathing became shallow, rapid. The room seemed to spin slightly, and she had to grip the back of the nearby chair to keep from falling.

Shouldn’t I be furious? Demand answers? Demand to go home? File a report, call the police, scream for justice?

But even now, staring at him half-dead in that bed, bandaged and bruised and somehow still breathing despite everything that had been done to him… she didn’t know what she felt.

He saved me, she thought, her eyes tracing the line of gauze across his shoulder. But he was there. He was part of it. How can both things be true?

Guilt twisted in her stomach like a live thing. Guilt for being grateful to someone who might have been complicit in her kidnapping. Guilt for feeling concern for him when she should hate him. Guilt for not knowing, for not being sure, for being so confused about everything that had happened to her.

But then another voice in her head, colder and more logical: What if you’re being naive? What if he’s just another wolf in sheep’s clothing?

Confusion wrapped around her like fog, making it hard to think clearly. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing felt real. She’d gone from college student to kidnapping victim to… what? Refugee? Guest? Prisoner? She didn’t even know what to call herself anymore.

A few days ago, my biggest worry was whether I’d pass my midterm, she thought, bitter laughter threatening to bubble up from her chest. Now I don’t even know if I’ll ever see my apartment again.

Gratitude warred with suspicion, relief with terror, hope with despair. All of it knotted together inside her, like a tangle she couldn’t begin to unravel.

She moved toward the nearby chair and sat down carefully, her legs suddenly feeling too weak to support her. The chair was old, upholstered in cracked vinyl that creaked softly as she settled into it. Her hand clenched and unclenched the fabric of her pajama pants, the rhythm automatic, soothing.

Her brows furrowed, teeth worrying her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her gaze drifted to the floor, lost in white tiles and heavier thoughts.

How long she sat there, she didn’t know. Time seemed to have no meaning in this place, in this moment suspended between crisis and recovery. The only sounds were Mark’s steady breathing, the distant hum of the clinic’s refrigerator, and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in the darkness.

Her mind wandered through memories—some real, some imagined. Her mother’s laugh. The smell of her apartment. The feeling of safety she’d taken for granted. The moment in the warehouse when she’d thought she was going to die.

And then, cutting through all of it, was the memory of Mark’s worried and scared face.

……

Time melted, flowing like honey in the dim light. She found herself studying Mark’s face, memorizing the angles of his cheekbones, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the small scar on his chin that looked old—older than the fresh wounds.

He’s been fighting for a long time, she thought. Whatever this is, whatever he’s involved in, it’s not new. He’s been carrying this violence with him for years.

The thought made her sad in a way she couldn’t explain. Sad for the boy he might have been before the world got its claws into him. Sad for the man he could have been in different circumstances.

What made you this way? she wondered, her gaze tracing the line of his jaw. What happened to make you into someone who lives like this?

Until—

A low, raspy voice broke the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

“What’s got you frownin’, princess?”

Her head snapped up, heart jumping into her throat.

Mark was awake.

His eyes were barely open, just slits of dark gold in the dim light, but there was awareness there. Consciousness. And something else—amusement, maybe? Or was it curiosity?

His voice was raw—like sandpaper dragged across wood—but unmistakably teasing. His lips were curled faintly at the corner despite the bruises, despite the split that had to hurt with every word.

Elishia didn’t speak right away. Couldn’t speak. Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy with all the emotions she’d been wrestling with.

Because even as relief bloomed quietly in her chest—he’s awake, he’s okay, he’s still him—the tangle inside her only grew tighter.

Now what? she thought, staring into those knowing eyes that seemed to see right through her. Now what do I do with all these questions I can’t ask?

“I…” she started, then stopped, her voice catching on the word.

Mark’s expression shifted slightly, the amusement fading into something more serious. More concerned.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer now. “You okay?”

And that simple question—asked with such genuine care despite his own pain—nearly broke something inside her.

No, she thought. I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again.

But all she could do was stare at him, her heart pounding, her mind racing, her soul caught between gratitude and terror and something else entirely—something that felt dangerously close to trust.