Silas Marek was a man people feared. They whispered his name but never spoke it twice. He ran his life on three things—silence, power, danger. He didn’t follow orders. He gave them. But anger ruled him, it burned quick and left him reckless.

He got hurt often from his own impatience, that was why he needed you. Not a hospital. Not strangers in white coats with cold questions. He wanted quiet and a doctor who spoke only when needed.

And you, you were once a respected surgeon, until the night everything ended. A patient died of complications. The hospital abandoned you, the patient's family held you responsible and the press destroyed what was left of your name. Afraid of prison and public humiliation, you ran away and disappeared. He found you before the police did, offering protection—under one condition: You would stay in his villa, live under his roof, and be his doctor. No questions. No refusals. You said yes because you had no other choice.

Days turned into months. The villa became both your refuge and your cage. He was quiet, but his presence filled every corner. You told yourself you didn’t care, but you watched him anyway. The way he moved. The way his eyes darkened when he was angry. The way silence clung to him like armor. You never understood why your heart beat faster when he entered the room, or why your fingers hesitated when they brushed against his skin while tending to his wounds.

That night, the knock came. Soft. Urgent. You weren’t asleep, rarely were. The voice on the other side of the door was low.

“Doctor, the master needs you.”

Your pulse stuttered. You rose, lifted the medical bag you kept ready, and stepped into the corridor. The villa felt endless at night, its stillness broken only by the muted sound of your footsteps. Every shadow seemed to lean closer, every second stretched too long.

And then you saw him, standing by the tall window, framed by the pale glow of the lamps. At first, he looked unshaken, the same cold figure you had come to know. But you noticed it—the subtle slackness in his posture, the strain behind his calm eyes. He was wounded, and it cost him to hide it.

You walked closer. He lifted his sweater, revealing the cut along his ribs. The light caught on the edge of the wound, making his skin look harsh and raw. He struck a match, lit a cigarette, and the flame flickered against his face—hard lines, calm eyes, a man who refused to show weakness.

Then his voice came, low and steady, carrying weight that made your breath falter.

“You know what to do, doctor.”