Rainwater slid down Mateo's face like cold fingers trying to pull him under. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open. Everything looked warped. The world bent inward like he was staring into a funhouse mirror. Concrete curved where it shouldn't. Streetlights fractured into jagged halos. The tunnel bridge above him—somewhere in Geneva, though he couldn't remember exactly where—stretched endlessly into blackness.
He tasted iron.
His own blood.
The rain was relentless, drumming against the asphalt, against metal, against him. He tried to move. Pain exploded through his ribs. His vision flickered.
For a second, he saw his reflection in a shallow pool of rainwater beside him. But it wasn't right. His face looked twisted. One eye half-closed, blood tracing a line from his temple down to his jaw. His mouth parted, but the reflection lagged behind, like it belonged to someone else.
He was falling in and out.
In.
Out.
Somewhere far away, a siren wailed. Or maybe it was inside his head.
No.
It grew louder. An ambulance.
Blue lights flickered against the tunnel walls, turning rain into shards of electric color. Shadows rushed toward him—boots splashing through puddles, voices layered over one another.
"Male, mid-thirties!"
"Significant blood loss!"
"Possible head trauma!"
Hands touched him. He flinched, or at least he thought he did.
A woman's face hovered above him, blurred by rain and tears he didn't remember shedding. Her hair was tucked beneath a hood, her gloved hands firm on his shoulders.
"Sir, can you hear me?" she asked urgently. "Stay with me. Everything is going to be fine."
Fine. The word echoed strangely. He tried to answer. Nothing came out but a wet gasp.
"Pulse is weak!" another voice shouted.
"BP dropping!"
They lifted him. The world tilted violently. For a moment, he thought he was falling into the sky. Then he realized they were hoisting him onto a stretcher. Straps tightened across his chest. The tunnel lights smeared overhead as they ran. The rain blurred into streaks of white. Inside the ambulance, everything was too bright. White lights, metal, the sharp scent of antiseptic. He heard doors slam. The siren screamed again as the vehicle lurched forward. He couldn't keep his eyes open. Voices overlapped in clinical urgency.
"GCS is eight."
"Hypovolemic shock suspected."
"Start two large-bore IV lines, 16 gauge."
A needle pierced his arm.
Cold fluid rushed in.
"Administering 1 liter of normal saline, rapid infusion."
His head lolled to the side.
He caught fragments.
"Possible intracranial hemorrhage."
"Prepare tranexamic acid."
"Heart rate 140 and climbing."
He wanted to tell them something. About the painting. About his job.
About—
"Sir, stay with us!" the woman's voice insisted.
He tried to focus on her face.
It kept splitting into two.
"BP 80 over 50!"
"Charge the defibrillator just in case!"
The ambulance swerved. Pain flared again and he tasted more blood.
"Starting blood transfusion protocol!"
"Type O negative ready!"
The world narrowed into a tunnel inside the tunnel.
Sound dulled. Then sharpened. Then dulled again.
"Mister! Can you hear me?" the woman demanded.
He felt himself slipping.
"Pulse is thready!"
"Prepare for intubation!"
Something pressed against his mouth and air was forced into his lungs. His chest rose mechanically.
"SpO2 dropping!"
"Come on, come on…"
The siren wailed louder. Or maybe it was fading.
Then—
A long, continuous beep. It was flat, steady and absolutely terrifying.
"Cardiac arrest!"
"Start CPR!"
Hands pounded his chest.
"One, two, three, four—"
"Administer epinephrine!"
"We're losing him!"
The words sliced through the chaos.
"We're losing him!"
Pressure, darkness.
The beeping stretched into infinity.
Then—
Silence.
********************************************************************************
Mateo's eyes snapped open, staring at an unfamiliar white ceiling completely still. It wasn't raining, his clothes weren't soaked, No ear blazing sound of sirens. He sucked in air sharply. It burned, his heart hammered wildly against his ribs. For a moment, he lay frozen, trying to piece together what was real. It had felt too vivid. Too detailed.
His arm felt heavy and then he looked down to find bandages wrapped around his forearm, thick gauze secured with medical tape. His other hand had a transparent tube taped into a vein—the IV line feeding clear fluid from a hanging bag above.
His head throbbed. He lifted a shaky hand and felt more bandaging around his temple.
Hospital?
No, it can't be. It had to be a dream. A nightmare even. He blinked slowly. The room sharpened into focus. The walls were pale cream, almost sterile in their softness. A large window to his right revealed a gray Swiss morning, rain still tracing lazy lines down the glass. Beyond it, he could see faint outlines of Geneva's architecture—clean, structured, indifferent. Machines hummed quietly beside him. A cardiac monitor displayed green waves pulsing steadily.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Not flat.
Not endless.
Alive.
The air smelled of disinfectant and linen. There was a tray table near the bed, a plastic water jug, neatly folded hospital gowns. A privacy curtain hung on a ceiling rail. The floor was polished, reflecting overhead fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly.
He wasn't dreaming. He shifted slightly the pain lanced through his side making his breath hitched. The painting, his mind snapped to it instantly. Where was it? Had it been taken?
Had—
He tried to sit up. The movement tugged sharply at his arm. A violent sting shot through him. He looked down just as the IV needle dislodged from his vein. Blood seeped quickly from the puncture.
"Damn it," he muttered hoarsely.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor felt cold.
Too cold.
His feet didn't feel like his own—like they'd been asleep for years.
He stood. The room tilted dangerously. He grabbed the edge of the bed for balance.
The monitor beeped faster. He took one step. Then another. His knees buckled slightly.
He stumbled forward grabbing the curtains as he was about to fall.
"I shouldn't be doing that if I were you, Mr. Pérez."
The voice was soft, smooth and almost musical.
He turned.
A woman stood in the doorway, one hand tucked casually into her lab coat pocket, a gentle smile playing at her lips.
She walked toward him with calm confidence.
Blonde hair fell neatly over her shoulders, catching the light. Her green eyes were striking—clear and vivid—but as she stepped closer, he noticed something unusual.
One of them wasn't entirely green. It held a faint blue tint, a blue-green depth that shimmered differently. Slight heterochromia, eyes you could get lost in.
She was breathtaking.
Not in a flashy way. But in a way that made the sterile hospital room feel suddenly warmer.
"You're bleeding," she said softly.
She reached him just as his knees threatened to give out again. Her hands steadied him effortlessly, guiding him back toward the bed.
He winced as she pressed gauze against his arm, stopping the blood from the IV site.
"You forced the cannula out," she noted gently. "That must have hurt."
He exhaled slowly as she helped him sit back down.
His head throbbed again.
She moved with efficient grace, checking the bandage at his temple.
"When you fell, you reopened part of the laceration," she added. "Try not to make my job harder."
There was humor in her tone. He watched her carefully.
"You're real," he murmured.
She arched a brow.
"I would hope so."
She finished re-taping the IV line into place, her fingers precise and warm.
"I'm Doctor Lawson," she said. "Ava Lawson. It's nice to meet you."
He studied her face again. Ava Lawson. The name fit her somehow.
"Nice to meet you too," he said quietly.
She picked up a small penlight.
"Routine checks," she explained. "Follow the light."
She moved it slowly across his field of vision.
"Pupils reactive. Good."
She placed a stethoscope against his chest.
"Deep breath."
He inhaled carefully.
"Again."
She checked his pulse, his blood pressure.
"You were lucky," she said matter-of-factly. "Severe blood loss. Mild concussion. A few fractured ribs. No major organ damage."
Lucky. That wasn't the word he would've used. He looked up at her.
"For a moment," he said, voice low, "I thought I was dead."
She met his gaze calmly.
"You weren't."
He tilted his head slightly.
"I was hoping you'd laugh," he added.
She blinked.
"At what?"
"I wanted to see what you look like when you laugh."
There was a beat of silence. Then she chuckled softly. The sound was light and genuine.
Her mismatched eyes brightened slightly.
"You're in a hospital bed with stitches in your head," she said. "Focus on healing before flirting."
"Worth a try." he replied shamelessly.
She shook her head faintly.
"I'll inform the police that you're awake," she said.
His stomach tightened. Police. Right.
"Wait," he said quickly. "My phone. I need my phone."
"For what?"
"I need to text my cousin. Let her know I'm okay."
She studied him briefly. Then nodded.
"It's in your personal belongings locker. I'll have a nurse bring it."
Minutes later, a nurse returned with a small plastic bag containing his wallet and phone.
His hands trembled slightly as he powered it on.
Notifications flooded the screen.
Missed calls.
Messages.
His chest tightened. He unlocked it. For a moment, he stared at the contact list.
Then he opened a message thread. His thumbs hovered. He typed slowly.
Carefully. Sent.
The screen displayed the single word beneath her name.
Delivered.
And somewhere far away—
Bambi's phone lit up.