They wound through more alleys, the buildings pressing tighter together, like the city itself wanted to swallow them whole. The stench worsened with each turn—urine, rot, rusted garbage bins with something alive scratching inside.

Each step feels heavier, Elishia thought, her vision wavering as Mark’s steady gait carried them deeper into the maze of forgotten streets. How does he know where he’s going? How does he navigate this place like he’s been here a thousand times?

Eventually, they emerged onto a narrow street.

The buildings here were cramped, brick and rust, some looking half-abandoned. A flickering lamp post stuttered overhead, casting light that came and went in uneven pulses, like the city’s heartbeat was irregular and dying.

Among the shadows, a small building sat with a faded neon sign that read “CLOSED” in flickering pink letters. It was a clinic, though barely recognizable. The front windows were dark, blinds drawn down like closed eyelids. No sign of life.

Mark slowed. Paused for just a second—long enough for Elishia to notice the way his shoulders tensed, like he was bracing himself for something. Then turned toward it.

But instead of going through the front, he continued walking—toward the back.

Elishia furrowed her brows weakly. 

“…Where are you going?” Her voice was low, dry, each word scraping against her throat. “It’s past midnight. The doctor’s probably asleep.”

Mark didn’t reply. His jaw was set in that familiar stubborn line she was beginning to recognize.

She pressed on, suspicious, her instincts flaring despite her exhaustion. “Why are you going to the back? What if someone lives here? You can’t just break in—” 

He finally muttered, without looking at her. “Guess.”

The way he said it made her chest tighten. There was something dark in that single word, something that spoke of secrets and histories she couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Guess what? That you’re about to break into someone else’s place? 

The back alley of the clinic was cluttered with discarded boxes, rusted shelves, and empty crates that looked like the abandoned dreams of some long-closed business. He finally stopped and lowered her down slowly onto her feet, propping her carefully against the wall.

The brick was cold against her back, and she could feel the dampness seeping through her shirt.

Then he reached into his pants pocket.

Elishia’s eyes narrowed as he pulled out a small key. The metal caught what little light filtered into the alley, winking at her like a guilty secret.

Wait…

He slid it into the lock, turned, and the back door clicked open with the soft sound of familiarity.

Elishia stared, her mind racing faster than her exhausted body could keep up with.

Is this his place…?

No—he said we weren’t going to his place. He was very specific about that.

Then—Why does he have a key? How long has he had that key? How many times has he used it?

Are we breaking in? Is this some kind of illegal hideout? Or is he— Her brain spiraled in confusion, each possibility worse than the last. What kind of person just carries around keys to medical facilities? What kind of person moves through the city like they own it, like they know every shadow and shortcut?

Before she could voice any of it, Mark pushed the door open and flicked the light switch inside.

Fluorescent light flashed to life—blinding after so much darkness, harsh and clinical and unforgiving.

Elishia instinctively squinted, raising her uninjured hand to block the sudden glare. White spots danced behind her eyelids.

Mark stepped inside first.

And as he moved past the doorway, the light revealed something that made her gasp.

His shirt—already torn and damp with blood—was now fully soaked down one side. From his left shoulder blade down to the base of his back, a long, ragged wound carved a path through his flesh like someone had tried to fillet him. Glass shards still clung to parts of it, glittering under the fluorescent light like twisted jewels embedded in raw meat. The blood had congealed, dark and ugly, from the cold outside.

How is he still walking? How is he still carrying me? How long has he been bleeding like that?

“Your back…” she whispered, shocked. The words felt inadequate for what she was seeing.

He didn’t even glance over his shoulder, as if massive lacerations were just part of his daily routine. “Come in.”

Like it’s nothing. Like he’s used to this. Like bleeding half to death is just another Tuesday night for him.

She hesitated, still blinking, still trying to process. Who is this man? What kind of life does someone live where they just… accept this kind of damage?

Then slowly, limping, she stepped inside.

The room they entered wasn’t anything like a clinic. It looked more like a makeshift kitchen—a metal sink stained with years of use, old counter space scarred with knife marks, two chipped stools, and a table pushed against the wall. A small fridge hummed quietly in the corner, the sound somehow both comforting and ominous.

This isn’t right. This isn’t normal. Normal people don’t have keys to abandoned clinics. Normal people don’t set up makeshift kitchens in medical facilities.

Mark opened the fridge and took out a half-used bottle of alcohol—not the drinking kind, she realized, but the kind that burned wounds clean. Then, without ceremony, he handed her a cold bottle of water.

It was already opened. 

Gratefully, she took it and drank—fast, almost desperate. She hadn’t realized how parched she was until that moment, how the smoke and fear had dried her mouth to paper. Each gulp made her wince as her throat reminded her of the smoke and grit she’d inhaled earlier, but she couldn’t stop. The water was life.

“Stay put,” Mark said flatly, already heading toward the door to the inner room on the right.

It looked like a bedroom. He disappeared behind the door, leaving her alone with her spiraling thoughts.

Elishia sat quietly on the stool, clutching the water bottle with one hand, her other arm aching so badly it pulsed with her heartbeat. She looked around, taking in the faint smell of antiseptic mixed with metal and something else—something lived-in and familiar.

This place… someone uses this place regularly. Someone lives here, or close enough to living.

Then—

THUD.

A loud one. The sound of a body hitting something solid.

She flinched, the sound jarring in the silence, the water bottle nearly slipping from her grip.

What was that? Did he fall? Did he pass out from blood loss?

Then—footsteps. Rapid. Heavy.

Followed by a voice.

It wasn’t Mark.

It was an older man’s voice, sharp and fast, like scolding. She couldn’t make out the words clearly from the kitchen, but the tone was unmistakable: angry and alarmed and… familiar. The kind of familiar that spoke of repetition, of this scene having played out before.

Oh God. Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?

Elishia’s fingers curled around the bottle tighter, her knuckles going white.

Who is that? Where are we? Is this some kind of criminal operation? Some kind of underground medical facility?

And for the first time since the explosion, her heart began to race again—not from exertion or injury, but from pure, primal fear.

****

The voice grew louder, clearer, and angrier.

Heavy, irritated footsteps followed it from the hallway. The tone, sharp and accusatory, carried through the small clinic like thunder, bouncing off the walls and settling into her bones.

“You brat! What’ve you gotten yourself into this time, huh?! I knew whatever job you were doing wasn’t clean—look at you! Covered in blood again! You think this is a game?! What is it this time, huh? Loan shark fight? Gang brawl? Drug deal gone wrong?”

This time. Again. How many times has this happened?

“You think that’s normal?! You think that’s sustainable?! How many times do I have to tell you—you keep this up and you’re gonna end up on my table permanently, you hear me? And don’t even get me started on the damn rent you owe me for using this place like your personal emergency room—”

Rent. He owes rent. For using this place. This is… this is a regular arrangement.

Elishia froze, every muscle in her body going rigid.

Then they emerged.

The older man stomped out from the hallway first and immediately stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes landed on her. His mouth, which had been moving rapidly in mid-tirade, snapped shut.

He was shorter than Mark by a head. Hair graying and messy from sleep, his beard uneven and wild like he’d been running his hands through it. He wore loose dark-blue pajamas, slightly wrinkled, and fuzzy slippers that made him look more like someone’s grumpy uncle than a doctor. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp, professional, taking her in with the kind of assessment that spoke of years of emergency medicine.

They stared at each other.

The silence stretched, filled with mutual evaluation. She could practically see him cataloging her injuries, her condition, her threat level.

Elishia, still clutching the half-empty water bottle, cleared her throat softly and offered a shy, “Um… hello.”

What else do you say to a mysterious doctor who’s apparently patched up your mysterious rescuer multiple times before?

The man’s expression didn’t shift right away. He blinked once, twice—then slowly turned toward the person behind him, his face transforming from professional assessment to personal irritation.

“You little punk,” he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you brought in a patient? You think I like being surprised by bleeding strangers in my kitchen? You think my heart can handle that kind of shock at my age?”

Mark appeared behind him, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, like his back wasn’t carved open and bleeding. “Aren’t I a patient too?”

The casual way he says it. Like this is normal. Like showing up half-dead is just… routine.

“You stinky brat,” the old man snapped, clearly unimpressed. “You walk in bleeding like roadkill and then casually waltz into my fridge like it’s a convenience store. What, you think I’m your on-call paramedic or something? You think just because I patched you up a few times that makes this place your personal medical spa?”

A few times. A few times. How many is a few?

“Do you have any idea what time it is? Do you know how much sleep I’ve lost because of your stupid, reckless—”

Their bickering bounced off the walls, but it didn’t last long. There was an undercurrent of genuine concern beneath the irritation, something that spoke of history and care disguised as annoyance.

The moment the old man turned to Elishia again, he was all doctor. The transformation was immediate and complete.

“Let me see that arm,” he said, approaching with a gentler voice now, professional and kind.

At least he seems to actually know what he’s doing.

Elishia tensed, but she didn’t resist. She held out her arm slowly, wincing at the movement. The man crouched slightly, inspecting the wound with trained eyes, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who’d just been shouting.

“Mm… deep,” he muttered, his fingers probing carefully around the edges. “Clean laceration, but messy edges… glass, I’m guessing? Needs stitching. You’re lucky it didn’t sever anything important. Few millimeters in either direction and you’d be looking at permanent nerve damage.”

Lucky. Right. Getting caught in an explosion and sliced open by flying glass. So lucky.

As he examined, she kept glancing at Mark—a mix of suspicion, confusion, and fatigue swimming in her eyes. Each look revealed new questions she didn’t know how to ask.

Mark ignored her completely, instead pulling off what remained of his tattered outer layer, revealing the blood-soaked shirt beneath. He moved carefully, but without any of the hesitation someone should have with that kind of injury.

The old man gestured with his head toward another door. “Come on. Let’s move her to the front.”

They led her through a doorway just past the hall—this time into what actually looked like a clinic room. White-painted walls, a small hospital bed that had seen better days, shelves filled with medical supplies that looked both professional and somehow off-market, and a faint smell of antiseptic that bit at her nose.

She was laid gently onto the bed, the mattress softer than she’d expected.

The old man moved swiftly—setting up a local anesthetic, cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency, then prepping the tools. He worked with the ease of someone who had done this hundreds of times, someone who knew exactly where everything was even in this makeshift setup.

“You got a name, sweetheart?” he asked as he prepared the anesthetic. “Something I can call you besides ‘the girl the little punk dragged in here bleeding’?”

“Elishia,” she managed.

“Dr. Chen,” he replied. “And don’t worry about him—” he nodded toward Mark. “He’s an idiot, but he’s not dangerous. Well, not to people who don’t deserve it.”

People who don’t deserve it. What does that mean? What kind of people does he think deserve it?

Mark stood at the far wall, arms crossed, watching in silence. 

Elishia didn’t speak. 

She was just… so tired. So tired of being afraid, of not understanding, of trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Her body felt like wet cement. The pain dulled as the anesthetic took effect, and her vision started to blur softly at the edges. Her limbs grew heavier with each passing second, and for the first time in hours, she felt something approaching safety.

Maybe it doesn’t matter who they are. Maybe it just matters that they’re helping.

She didn’t even notice when her eyelids finally gave up.

Sleep pulled her under—hard, fast, and quiet.

—-

As the doctor wiped his hands and adjusted her blanket, he looked up to see Mark heading back down the hall, already reaching for the alcohol and gauze.

“You know,” the older man called out, “pouring alcohol directly into a back wound like that’s a death sentence. Would it kill you to take a painkiller or let me inject something first? You’re not impressing anyone with your pain tolerance, you masochistic fool.”

Mark’s voice echoed back as he disappeared behind the separating curtain. “No need. I’ve had worse.”

Had worse. Dr. Chen shook his head, muttering under his breath about stubborn idiots and death wishes.

And then he was gone.

The room fell quiet, save for the soft beeping of an old wall clock and Elishia’s slow, steady breathing. In the silence, Dr. Chen looked down at the sleeping girl and wondered—not for the first time—what kind of trouble his stubborn patient had gotten himself into now.

And what kind of trouble he’d just brought to his door.