The ER was quieter than it should’ve been.

No yelling, no gurneys rattling down the hall, just the low hum of fluorescents and the faint antiseptic sting clinging to Kaiseng’s scrubs. He liked this part of the shift—the stillness between disasters, when even the air felt like it was holding its breath.

He was halfway through restocking a crash cart when two nurses brushed past, their voices carrying down the corridor.

“Heard it was a shootout,” one whispered. “Likely gang related.”

“Five dead, the rest ran.”

“If they’re bleeding out somewhere, good riddance. Thugs.”

Kaiseng didn’t look up. He’d learned not to listen. Nothing good happened after midnight—that was how the saying went, and working here, he believed it. Midnight brought everything the city didn’t want to see in daylight: stabbings over bad deals, car wrecks that twisted steel and bone together, overdoses that rolled in blue-lipped and silent. Drunks with broken noses. Lovers with split knuckles. Sometimes cops. Sometimes kids.

He snapped a drawer shut, the sound sharp in the empty hallway, and glanced at the clock. 4:08 a.m. Two more hours, one more cup of burnt break-room coffee, and then he could shut himself inside his studio apartment, black out the lights, and let sleep drag him under—just to wake up and do it all over again.

His attention snagged on the corridor again when two officers cut past, Dr. Anderson walking with them, her brow pinched as she gestured toward another wing. He hoped it wasn’t an MVA or a mass casualty; there wasn’t the organized chaos that usually came with those calls.

A nurse brushed by, steps quick. Her hand landed on his shoulder for a second. “Hey—can you check on the patient in 103? Another call light went off.” He didn’t get to answer before she was gone, a tired, grateful smile thrown over her shoulder. “Thanks, Kai.”

He was used to being useful. It was why he’d chosen this job.

Room numbers slid past—100, 101, 102—before something grabbed the back of his scrubs. The fabric pulled tight as he was yanked sideways; his shoes squealed on tile. The door banged, and his spine met wood. Something hard pressed into his sternum.

His heart jackhammered as his vision finally caught up. He was boxed in: a gun pressed to his sternum, the man’s other arm braced along the doorframe, palm splayed to keep him from backing out the way he’d been shoved in.

The emergency strip threw everything into harsh silhouette—too little to show a face, enough to give him the shape of a hood and the hard line of a mask. It was matte black, a face without a face and the only color was a single red slash that ran from brow to the bridge of the nose and stopped between the eyes.

A name hit him before the rest of the puzzle did.

Redline—word-of-mouth legend and headline bite: drugs, assaults, drive-bys, bodies that never made the papers. Seeing the mask on a man in his ER felt like watching a rumor step into fluorescent light.

He thought of the officers he’d seen earlier and of all the things he should do—shove, shout, run. His limbs argued with him, every muscle coiled to move, but the cold metal held him still, anchored to the spot.

Then came the silence—thick, pulsing. Only their breathing filled the space, uneven and close, and the pounding in Kaiseng’s ears drowned out everything else. When the voice finally broke through, it was rough and low. “Don’t say anything,” the man said. “Or I will shoot you.”

His hand stayed braced against the door as he took a step back, the gun still aimed at Kai’s chest before shifting, gesturing deeper into the room.

“Get over there.”

Kaiseng did as he was told, palms raised, the air too thick to breathe. He moved slowly toward the bed until the sterile sheet brushed against his thigh. When he turned back, the man hadn’t moved from the door—just leaned there, shoulders heavy, a strained sound slipping from behind the mask.

“What do you want from me?” Kai managed, his voice thin but steady. “There are cops crawling all over this place… I’m assuming they’re here for you?”

“I said don’t talk.”

The words came low and frayed, carrying something more dangerous than volume. He lifted the edge of his sweatshirt, revealing a dark smear of blood glistening against tan skin. The wound ran deep, but Kai couldn’t tell how deep in this light—and he wasn’t about to move closer to find out.

His eyes flicked toward the call light dangling beside the bed. One step. Maybe two. He could make it.

He moved.

But before he could reach it, a hard grip caught his shoulder and shoved. The bed met his ribs before he could brace himself; the air punched out of his lungs. The next second, the weight of a body pressed him down, the firm press of a knee at his back keeping him pinned.

The sheets bunched beneath his cheek, the smell of disinfectant sharp in his nose—sharp enough to sting. But beneath it, faint and fleeting, something warmer bled through the chaos. Something he couldn’t name. Something that didn’t belong to the room at all.

A scent. Barely there. Like heat beneath metal. Like adrenaline with an edge of something… sweet?

His fingers twitched. He didn’t understand why it cut through him the way it did. Or why his pulse jumped as if responding to it.

His hand stretched toward the cord—fingers grazing plastic before it was yanked away and thrown. It swung from its wall mount, a lazy arc in the dim light. The gun was gone from his view, but he could feel it—close, constant.

The weight on his back shifted. A hand slid up, finding the base of his neck and pressing down hard enough to make his breath hitch. The man’s exhale came rough and shallow. “Try that again,” he rasped. “I fucking dare you.” The words vibrated low, more growl than speech.

Then the pressure eased. Fingers dragged down from his neck, tracing the ridge of his spine in a fleeting touch that burned through the fabric of his scrubs. They caught at his hip, gripping tight before Kai hit the mattress on his back, the air leaving him in a rush.

And again—barely there, barely real—that same warmth ghosted across his senses, a pulse of scent sharp enough to make his nerves stand on end before it vanished like it had never been there.

The masked man stood over him now, gun leveled between them. 

“Sit up.”

He did, slow and careful, pulse thrumming in his throat. Their bodies were too close; he shifted back until the edge of the bed pressed into the back of his knees. The gun followed, brushing against the plastic of his badge.

“Registered Nurse,” the man murmured, voice dragging over the words like a blade. “Kaiseng Park.”

He said it again, softer—almost a purr this time—while his free hand unzipped the sweatshirt. No shirt beneath. Just muscle, dusted in dried blood, fresh crimson still wet around the wound.

“Patch me up,” he said, “and I won’t ruin that pretty face. Alright… Nurse Park?”

The way he said it—the lazy curl of mockery, the deliberate weight on his name—snagged on something in Kai’s memory. Familiar cadence. Familiar heat. His gaze climbed back to the mask. The eyes were only holes, black and bottomless, but he could feel them studying him all the same.

Kai’s instincts kicked in before fear could settle again. His gaze dropped to the wound, the copper smell cutting through the sterile air. The blood was dark, slow—venous, not arterial. He followed the line of the tear, tracing it carefully with his eyes before his hand moved.

His fingers brushed the man’s abdomen, light and practiced. Warm skin, damp with sweat. The man tensed, a small intake of breath breaking the silence.

“It’s a stab wound,” Kai said quietly. “Looks like it missed anything vital.”

The man didn’t respond, just kept the gun trained loosely on him.

“I need supplies,” Kaiseng continued, his voice steadier than he felt. His eyes flicked to the cabinet across the room. “Gauze, saline, forceps. Either let me get it or you do it. They’re over there.”

The masked man tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his options. Then he moved, slow and deliberate. The muzzle of the gun never wavered, tracking Kai as he stepped toward the drawers.

“What do you need first?”

“Gloves.”

Kai’s throat felt dry, his fingers twitching against his knees as he watched the man open a drawer and rummage through it with his free hand. The gun never wavered. He set the supplies down on the counter with a muted clatter.

“Anything else?” The voice came low, almost idle.

“No… just—” Kai swallowed, forcing his thoughts into the clean lines of procedure. Panic never saved anyone. Protocol did. “Sit,” he said quietly, gesturing to the chair beside the bed.

The masked man didn’t move at first. Then he did—lifting the chair with one hand and setting it directly in front of the only exit before lowering himself into it. The motion pulled at his wound, earning a sharp breath and the slow seep of more blood, dark against tan skin.

Kai rose. The gloves snapped around his wrists, the sound small but too loud in the silence. He uncapped the saline, the light salty scent hitting the air.

“Keep pressure here.”

He stepped close enough to guide the man’s hand, pressing two fingers over the torn flesh until the other complied. The skin beneath was hot, fevered, trembling faintly under his touch.

“Just like that,” Kai murmured. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” came the reply, his tone lazy and lacking real bite, but his hand stayed exactly where Kaiseng had placed it.

Kai reached for gauze, dampened it, and began to clean the wound. Each swipe revealed more of the injury — deep, ugly, but survivable. He worked in silence, the sound of saline dripping and their breathing the only noise in the room.

“You’re lucky,” Kai murmured. “An inch lower and it would’ve hit your liver.”

The man chuckled softly, low and dark. “Didn’t feel lucky.”

Kai ignored the comment, focused on blotting away the last of the blood. His gloved fingertips skimmed over muscle, over heat. Every breath felt too loud in his chest. “Stay still,” he said. “I need to pack it before you lose any more blood.”

“Careful,” the man muttered, voice edged with something that wasn’t quite pain. “You sound like you care.”

“I don’t,” Kaiseng lied. “I’m just doing my job.”

The mask tilted toward him. “You’re shaking, Nurse Park.”

He was. But his hands didn’t falter. He kept working, methodical, precise, while the man’s gaze—unseen but heavy—lingered on every movement. 

“You’ll need sutures,” Kai said quietly. “I can’t do that with what’s in here, but if you let me—” He started to rise from his crouch, but the man’s hand shot out, closing around his wrist before he could straighten. The grip was firm, unyielding. The gun lifted from his knee, the barrel tilting toward Kai’s chest.

“Just bandage me up, Park.”

The tone was controlled, steady—but the cadence wasn’t unfamiliar. He’d heard that before, countless times. Sometimes playful. Sometimes sharp with irritation. Sometimes soft in the dark when the world had felt smaller and safer.

He knew that voice.

The air caught in his throat. His pulse skipped.

“Rian.”

The name left him on a breath, barely sound at all. A name that once meant warmth, now dredging up everything he’d buried—guilt, longing, fear.

The hand around his wrist tightened, a silent warning as he instinctively tried to pull back.

“I’m a patient man, Nurse Park, but you are truly testing me.” He rose, the mask brushing Kai’s cheek—cold, hard—followed by the weight of the gun pressing to his chest. “Pack my wound and bandage it before I find another nurse who knows how to listen.”

Kai’s jaw tightened, the muscle flickering beneath the skin. He exhaled slowly, collecting himself, and stepped back. When no resistance came, he turned to gather what he needed. His hands worked on instinct. 

Kneeling again, he began to pack the wound, gauze sinking into the dark line of it, each motion careful, clinical. He could feel the man’s gaze on him, heavy and unbroken. The kind that crawled over skin without ever touching.

“See how much easier this is when you listen?” the man said, voice low, almost amused. “Things always are when you just do your job, huh?”

Then something cool touched under Kai’s chin. He stilled as the man tilted his head upward with the muzzle, the edge pressing just enough to make him feel the steel. His breath caught, the faintest tremor pulling through him as he lifted his gaze. The mask stared back, the single red line catching the thin strip of light between them.

Kai’s breathing grew shallow, pulse thrumming beneath his skin as the cold metal moved to trace along his cheek. The gun dragged a slow path beneath his cheekbone, the touch almost gentle until it stopped at the corner of his mouth.

“Open your mouth,” the masked man said, voice low and dangerous.

Kai’s brows furrowed, but no sound left him. He stayed still—caught between defiance and disbelief.

The metal edge shifted, pressing down on his lower lip until it parted slightly. “Suck it.”

Instinct flared; his hand shot up to grab the gun, but the man pushed harder. The cold steel clinked against Kaiseng’s teeth just as a hand fisted into his hair, holding him in place.

“Fuck off,” Kai spat, voice raw.

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” the man murmured back, the words quiet but heavy.

Kai’s gaze flicked downward before he could stop himself—to the man’s groin, where the dark fabric strained against a visible bulge. His stomach twisted. The metal slid further into his mouth, pressing against his tongue until it brushed the back of his throat. He gagged, shoving both the hand and the weapon away before coughing, the sound rough in the quiet room. Wiping his mouth with the back of his glove, he shot the man a glare.

The masked man only chuckled.

“Fuck you,” Kaiseng snapped, stripping off his gloves as he rose to his feet. The latex hit the trash with a soft thud.

“Offer accepted.” 

The words had barely left him before Kai was lifted clean off the floor, slung over the masked man’s shoulder.

He didn’t stay still. His fists connected with whatever they could reach—solid muscle, coarse fabric, air. In the struggle, he caught the edge of the man’s sweatshirt, dragging it down hard. The hood slipped free, revealing dark hair and the curve of a tattooed arm.

Kai’s fingers found the edge of the mask next, tugging until the man’s grip faltered. The black mask hit the tiles with a hollow thud.

“Rian,” he breathed.