The moon hung at the tree's edge, carrying a cool breeze; the window in the hospital ward reflected a young girl, her hand clutching a 10 cm needle that glistened coldly as she slowly approached the bedside. Even though she wore a mask, her upward-slanting eyes were unmistakable.
Charles Anderson's eyes were tightly shut, his breathing shallow.
The girl observed him sleep peacefully, crouching quietly by the bed, studying the man's hands—distinct knuckles, bulging veins, so fair the blood vessels were visible at a glance.
Perfect for a needle.
She gently held the man's palm, moving the long needle closer, holding her breath, but before the needle could touch his skin, she sensed a cold gaze above her.
The girl's breath hitched, raising her eyes only to find herself staring into Charles Anderson's dark eyes.
The man grabbed the girl's offending hand, pulling her quickly. Suddenly, she was pinned against the hospital bed; Charles used his weight to press down on her legs.
