I hate walking back to the dorm alone at night. It’s creepy, and honestly, I’d rather not. But sometimes, well… no choice.

  The shortcut I take is way too quiet tonight. Not just the usual nighttime silence, but the kind that makes your skin crawl. Like everything’s holding its breath. Waiting.

  A strange unease settles in my chest. Move. Just move.

  I adjust my bag strap and pick up my pace. No reason—just instinct.

  Then, I see him.

  Tall. Dark hood pulled over his face. One hand buried in his coat pocket. His walk is slow, deliberate—too casual. My instincts aren’t buying it.

  Then, he looks at me.

  And it’s not just a gnce.

  He’s watching me.

  My heart stumbles. Okay. Nope. Nope nope nope. Keep walking. Don’t react. Don’t give him a reason to—

  Wait.

  His wrist.

  His sleeve shifts just enough, and I catch it. A tattoo. Dark ink against pale skin.

  A cobra, coiled around a shield. Or maybe… something else. A crest. A mark.

  Something that makes my stomach twist.

  Not my problem. Not my business.

  I keep walking.

  My footsteps echo too loud against the pavement.

  It’s fine. I take this route all the time. Nothing’s ever—

  A crash.

  My breath catches.

  Something—or someone—just smmed against the alley wall.

  I freeze.

  Then, against every ounce of self-preservation in my body… I turn my head.

  And I see him.

  Not the first guy.

  Someone else.

  He’s slumped against a wall, half-hidden by shadows. His bck shirt is soaked— And not with sweat.

  Blood.

  Way too much blood.

  I swallow hard. My stomach flips.

  His shoulders tremble slightly, his breathing sharp and uneven. One side of his body stays oddly still, like he’s either protecting something—

  Or he can’t move it.

  More blood drips from his fingertips. Slow. Steady.

  I should leave. Walk away. Call the cops. Do… something.

  But I don’t.

  Because the second I see his face—

  I know.

  Not him. But his type.

  The kind of person who doesn’t just "end up" in an alley, bleeding out.

  Which means—whoever did this to him?

  They might still be here.

  My body screams at me to walk away.

  But my legs won’t move.

  And now—

  He’s watching me again.

  Even in bad lighting, I see too much. Blonde hair, messy and damp. Skin, pale like a ghost. Eyes—

  Blue. Sharp. Unshaken.

  Then… he lifts his head.

  “…Think I’ll survive if you just stand there staring?”

  His voice is rough, shredded. But not weak. Not even close.

  I flinch. What kind of guy jokes while bleeding out?

  My eyes flick to the blood pooling at his feet. Before I can stop myself—

  “You need a hospital.”

  A low chuckle. Rough, broken. Then a cough. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. And somehow—

  He smiles.

  “A hospital?” he echoes, voice wrecked but amused. “Yeah… that’s not happening.”

  “…Why not?” My mouth moves before my brain catches up.

  He doesn’t answer.

  Just looks at me.

  Something uneasy curls in my stomach. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know what mess he’s tangled in. But somehow—

  He expects me to help him.

  I should say no. I should.

  But then—

  The blood, still slipping from his fingers.

  His breathing, slow and unsteady. His body, barely keeping itself upright.

  If I leave him here… he might actually die.

  My throat tightens. This is crazy. It’s reckless. It’s stupid.

  “I— I don’t even know you,” I mutter, voice barely steady. “Where the hell am I supposed to take you?”

  His lips twitch. It’s barely a smile, but it’s there.

  “Anywhere safer than here.”

  His voice is too even. Too sure.

  Like he already knows I won’t leave.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, let out a sharp breath. My hands curl into fists before I mutter—

  “…God, I'm gonna regret this.”

  Steeling myself, I step forward, grab his arm, and haul it over my shoulder.

  His weight presses against me instantly, like he’s just been waiting for this.

  He doesn’t fight it.

  Like he knew I’d help him all along.

  The damp pavement glistened under the dim streetlights, the scent of fresh rain still lingering in the air. My footsteps alternated between light and heavy—some barely making a sound, others dragging with the weight pressed against me.

  He was heavier than I expected.

  Even though he tried to walk on his own, I felt the subtle tremors in his muscles every time he moved. He was tall—at least twenty centimeters taller than me—and even though he wasn’t leaning his full weight on me, just holding him up made my legs shake.

  At one point, he suddenly stopped.

  I nearly lost my bance.

  I turned to him and saw his fist clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

  We moved through a series of narrow alleyways, twisting and turning down unfamiliar paths. The silence between us was thick, heavy. The only sound was his breathing—growing harsher. Not from exhaustion, but from the pain he was holding back.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I don’t know him. I don’t know who he is or why he’s in this state. There’s no reason for me to help him. None.

  And yet… here I am.

  It doesn’t make sense. No matter how I look at it, I should have left him behind.

  But somehow, I knew—if I did, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

  “Inside.”

  His voice rasped beside me.

  I looked up, finding a heavy steel door in front of us. It looked old, sturdy—like the kind of pce not just anyone could walk into.

  With shaking hands, I pushed it open.

  The room was pitch dark. The air was stale, carrying the scent of dust and neglect. I fumbled along the wall, searching for the switch. When the dim overhead light flickered on, I froze.

  This wasn’t an ordinary living space.

  A rge, dark wooden table stood in the center. A gun rested in the corner. Shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly stacked folders and documents. And next to the worn-out leather couch—

  A rge first aid kit.

  Before I could process anything, his body colpsed onto the couch with a heavy thud.

  I turned to him.

  His gaze met mine, just as cold as before.

  "Who the hell are you?" I finally asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  Instead, he lifted his hand and pointed to the first aid kit.

  “That box.”

  I hesitated, then stepped forward and picked it up. It was heavier than expected. When I flipped it open, my breath hitched.

  Scalpels. Syringes. Alcohol. Gauze. And an array of other surgical tools I couldn’t even name.

  This is…

  “Take the bullet out.”

  I froze.

  Did I… hear him right?

  “What?” My voice wavered.

  “If you can’t do it, leave. I’ll handle it myself.”

  He spoke as if this was just another chore—like taking out the trash.

  But no. I knew if I left him like this, he’d die.

  I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to steady.

  “I—I’ve never done this before.”

  “I’ll tell you how.”

  His gray eyes locked onto mine, unwavering. Steady. Not an ounce of doubt in them.

  I took a deep breath and pulled on a pair of gloves. My hands were still trembling, but I had to focus.

  He shrugged off his jacket, wincing as the fabric peeled away from his wound.

  Pale skin. Streaks of blood trailing down his shoulder.

  For a moment, my vision blurred. It was too real. Too much.

  I picked up the scalpel. The bde glinted under the dim light.

  My grip tightened.

  “How deep do I cut?” My voice was barely above a whisper.

  His gaze didn’t waver.

  “Slowly. But don’t hesitate.”

  I inhaled sharply and pressed the scalpel against his torn skin.

  His muscles twitched immediately. His breath came out sharp, controlled—but I could see his clenched jaw, the way his body tensed.

  He was in pain. A lot of it. But he wasn’t making a sound.

  “I—I can’t do this…”

  “You can.” His voice was calm. “Just keep going.”

  The wound opened wider, exposing the gleam of embedded metal.

  I saw it.

  The bullet.

  When I reached for the forceps, I hesitated.

  He didn’t move. But I saw his fingers dig into the couch, his nails pressing into the leather as if to brace himself.

  “I can’t pull it out.” My voice was unsteady.

  “Twist the forceps. Then pull.”

  I did as he said—

  And the bullet came loose.

  Blood gushed from the wound.

  I gasped.

  “There’s too much blood—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I pressed gauze over the wound, trying to stem the flow. My hands were slick with blood, my heart pounding.

  “I—I have to stitch it.”

  “Do it.”

  I grabbed the sutures with shaking fingers. My skin felt ice cold.

  “I’ve never stitched a person before…”

  He smirked faintly.

  “Like stitching fabric. Just don’t mess up.”

  I swallowed. Was that supposed to make me feel better?

  “I don’t want to hurt you…”

  “It already hurts. Just make it fast.”

  I could hear his breathing—steady, controlled.

  The needle pierced his skin.

  His entire body tensed, but he didn’t make a sound.

  His free hand clenched into a fist, knuckles turning white. He was holding back every instinct to flinch.

  I don’t know how long it took, but eventually, I finished.

  His muscles finally rexed, as if his body was only now allowing itself to breathe.

  I looked up at him, at those unreadable eyes staring right back.

  I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  I didn’t know if I ever would.

  My hands still trembled as I set down the tools. The sound of metal clicking against the tray echoed in my ears, mirroring the chaos in my head.

  I just—

  I just pulled a bullet out of someone.

  I just stitched up a complete stranger.

  It all happened too fast. Too fast for my mind to keep up.

  I exhaled shakily, staring at my bloodstained hands.

  His blood.

  I’d never seen so much blood in my life. Never thought I’d ever be capable of something like this.

  But I did it.

  I looked up at him again.

  He leaned back against the couch, breathing evenly. His face was still pale, but his expression remained unreadable.

  As if this was nothing.

  As if this was normal for him.

  I clenched my fists, inhaling sharply before speaking.

  “Who are you?”

  He opened his eyes, gaze meeting mine. It was like he was deciding something.

  The soft glow of the mp beside him cast his face in shadows, strands of pale hair falling into his eyes, beads of sweat clinging to his skin. But those eyes—

  Still, completely steady.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “…Kevin.”

  His voice was quiet.

  His name was simple.

  But something about it—about him—felt anything but ordinary.

  I blinked.

  Kevin.

  Just Kevin?

  “Kevin…” I repeated, studying him. “That’s it?”

  His lips twitched slightly, as if amused.

  “For tonight,” he murmured. “That’s enough.”

  I frowned.

  What the hell does that mean?

  I wanted to ask.

  But when I met his gaze again—

  I knew he wasn’t going to give me anything more.

  I swallowed hard, leaning back against the chair beside me.

  Tonight was the strangest night of my life.

  I saved someone I didn’t know.

  I stepped into a world I didn’t understand.

  And somehow, I knew—

  Tonight was only the beginning.