Tomas rose slowly. Her weight on his back was light, but unmistakable—a warm, inert mass. Her dark hair brushed the back of his neck, carrying a faint, dizzying mix of jasmine and the drying traces of blood. Every subtle movement reminded him that she was fragile, yet alive.
He walked carefully along the cold asphalt. The third point of his contract was complete, yet the tension in his muscles remained taut, a reflex he could not shake. Moonlight followed them—silver, silent, painting two elongated, shifting shadows across the cracked concrete street.
"Not far now," he murmured, keeping his voice steady. "Past that next building—my place."
He turned his head slightly. Laura's cheek rested against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing, though shallow, had finally settled into a steady rhythm. Exhaustion, shock, and pain allowed her body to rest for the first time in hours.
He unlocked the apartment door quietly. The stairwell smelled of damp walls and old, dusty plaster. Inside the apartment, everything was dim, still, and familiar.
In the bedroom, the bed was unmade, a blanket thrown carelessly to one side. Tomas lowered her onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, moving with the careful control of someone used to handling fragile human material.
He went immediately to the living room closet and fetched the medical kit—his father's old aluminum box, heavy and worn. The metal clasps clicked open with a quiet, efficient sound.
Inside: antiseptic wash, cotton batting, compression bandages, a small vial of lidocaine ointment, and several packages of sterile pads.
He returned to the bedroom. Using the low bedside lamp, he began to work, observing her injuries with clinical detachment.
He cleaned her wounds one by one. The split eyebrow—still tender, but the bleeding had stopped. The cut lip—swollen and deep purple but manageable. Her scraped palms—dirt embedded deep in the raw skin. Finally, the ankle—visibly dislocated, swollen tight, the skin stretched and already patterned with bruising.
"Good thing you sleep deeply," he whispered to the silence. "This won't be awkward."
He applied the disinfectant and wrapped the injury with practiced, surgical precision, using firm pressure to stabilize the joint and minimize swelling. He didn't attempt to reduce the dislocation; that required a hospital setting. He simply treated the immediate, manageable damage. Then, he pulled the blanket over her—a thick, gray woolen thing, warm and soft from years of use.
He switched off the lamp and retreated to the living room. The sofa was cold and thin beneath the worn upholstery. But he lay down without hesitation, pulling the throw blanket over him, closing his eyes.
Today was… unusual.
Morning arrived quietly but insistently.
Sunlight filtered through the thin, dusty curtains, falling in strips of warm gold across the living room floorboards, illuminating the discarded blanket and Tomas lying half off the couch. A ray of pale light crossed his face, a natural alarm.
He blinked awake. Again. Another morning completed successfully.
He exhaled slowly. The sound held no emotion.
I guess I should make breakfast. I have… a guest.
In the bedroom, Laura stirred. Her first instinct, following the deep sleep, was a jolt of panic.
Where am I?!
She lurched upright—but a blinding, tearing pain ripped through her ankle.
"Ah—!" Her cry was thin, startled, and she fell back against the pillow, clutching her shin.
Memories flooded back in sharp, disjointed fragments: the flickering neon. Four men. The cold stranger's voice. The shocking speed of the violence. His hands steady on her back. The warmth of his coat.
He… saved me.
She gently touched her bandaged eyebrow. Her swollen lip. Her hands. Her ankle—it was wrapped firmly, expertly, holding the joint immobilized.
He's not a bad person. A small, shaky smile crept to her lips, quickly followed by the sting of tears.
She glanced around the room—it was messy, lived-in, but oddly comforting. A shirt tossed on a chair. Socks on the floor. A thick textbook, Abdominal Surgery, lay half open on the small nightstand.
Then she smelled something that cut through the stale air.
Coffee. Strong and black. Crispy bacon, just past the point of being burnt. Eggs, sizzling softly. The soft, regular clink of ceramic dishes.
He's cooking?
She carefully pushed the blanket aside, tested her good leg, and opened the door a crack.
Tomas stood in the small, functional kitchen, his back to her. Morning sun lit the broad lines of his shoulders through a thin, gray T-shirt. His movements were precise, almost clinical: stirring the eggs, flipping the bacon, pouring the coffee with zero wasted motion.
"Good morning," she said quietly.
He turned. His face was pale and unreadable, wiped clean of any emotion.
"Bathroom's on the left," he said, his voice flat. "Wash up, then eat. I left you a shirt on the counter. Yours are torn."
Her cheeks flushed slightly.
"…Thank you."
In the bathroom mirror, she saw the full extent of her injuries—disheveled hair, a bruised lip, a swollen brow framed by the white bandage.
I look like I crawled out of a street fight. Again. Typical.
She washed up quickly and slipped on Tomas' shirt—it was large on her, soft, smelling faintly of clean laundry and his body.
When she returned, breakfast was set neatly on the small, scratched coffee table.
"The shirt suits you," Tomas said simply, sitting down across from her. "Eat before it gets cold."
Laura sat down, her eyes sparkling with a confused gratitude.
"I don't remember the last time someone made breakfast for me…" she admitted quietly.
They ate in silence, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the comforting steam rising from the coffee. The sunlit air was unexpectedly warm, casting a quiet golden glow over the small apartment.
"How's the leg?" Tomas asked, focusing entirely on the task of eating.
"Better… much better. You're… really good at this."
"Good." He nodded once, acknowledging the fact without pride. "When you finish, I'll call a taxi. Your phone's broken. If you need to make a call—use mine."
Her smile warmed slightly.
"No need. I'll manage."
Tomas collected the plates, cleaning up with the methodical precision.
Laura watched him. Why is he so cold? So sad? That laugh last night… Where did that sudden ferocity come from? What broke him?
"Ready to go?" Tomas asked, the question clipped and professional, concluding the interaction.
"Yes," she said quickly.
His phone rang then—a jarring sound in the quiet space. He answered. "Yes? … Okay. I'll be there in an hour."
He hung up. "I have work. I'll walk you to the corner."
Laura nodded, pulling herself up carefully. While he changed in the next room, she wandered quietly through the living area. Books stacked neatly on a shelf. The worn sofa. A dusty TV. Her eyes caught a framed photograph—a family. A boy with solemn green eyes standing between a proud man and a smiling woman.
Tomas…
Suddenly his voice was behind her.
"All right. Let's go."
She jolted, stepping back quickly—and the toe of her sneaker caught the edge of a forgotten box. Her body lurched forward, off-balance.
Tomas caught her instantly. His hands were steady, firm at her waist, stabilizing her falling weight. Her palms pressed reflexively against the hard planes of his chest. Their faces were inches apart.
Those eyes—cold, empty, yet arresting in their absolute focus. And his heartbeat—unexpectedly strong, fast, and completely alive beneath her hands.
They separated quickly, the moment breaking like thin glass.
"I need to get to work," he said, stepping back, retrieving his distance.
"O–okay. Let's go," she murmured, shaken more by the contact than by the fall.
They descended the stairs—Tomas ahead, a heavy, dark presence, Laura limping cautiously behind.
Outside, the sun was bright but the air still crisp. Leaves crackled underfoot.
Tomas pulled out a folded fifty-dollar bill and handed it to her.
"Take it. For the bus or a taxi." His gaze drifted away, avoiding her eyes.
"We probably… won't see each other again."
Laura froze. A strange warmth rose painfully in her chest, a feeling alien to the hard cold of the last three years. No one had helped her like this in years.
"…Thank you," she whispered, holding the money but not looking at it. "For everything. I won't forget. And… I'll repay you. I promise."
"No need," Tomas said, though his eyes softened.
"It's necessary," Laura replied, gently but firmly, meeting his gaze. "Come to Obsidian."
He hesitated and say coldly, no thanks.
Point three—Help a stranger—was completed. Now he could go to next point.
They parted—he turned sharply toward his demanding job, she limped toward the bus stop and whatever came next. And the list… still had more lines waiting to be crossed off.