“Move—MOVE!”

Your voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding as you drop to your knees beside the patient. Your hands are already working, mind racing faster than the sirens screaming around you. Blood. Smoke. The rhythmic thumping of your own heart. Just another night in hell.

“Careful. You’re about to miss the internal bleeding in the upper quadrant.”

That voice. Low. Annoyingly calm. Infuriatingly familiar.

You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. Kim Mingyu.

His heavy boots crunch against the shattered glass on the pavement. He’s covered in a layer of ash, his helmet tucked under his arm as if he just strolled out of a collapsing building for fun. He stands there looking like he owns the entire scene. He always does.

“If I wanted commentary, Mingyu, I’d ask,” you snap, not breaking your rhythm as you stabilize the patient’s neck.

A smirk tugs at his lips—that damn smirk that makes your blood boil. “I’d charge extra for the advice anyway,” he shoots back, crouching beside you. “But don't worry, I’ll save you the trouble of failing.”

“I don’t need saving,” you hiss, glaring at him for a split second.

“Yeah?” His eyebrow lifts, his dark eyes flicking to your hands—steady and precise despite your temper. “Funny. Looks like you’re two seconds away from making it worse. Let me help.”

You move together. You hate it, but it’s seamless. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. You provide the medicine; he provides the strength and the tactical eye. Together, you are the most efficient team on the force—and the most volatile.

Minutes later, the patient is stabilized. Alive.

Silence settles for a heartbeat. Your breathing is heavy. So is his. He stands up, brushing ash off his gloves, and looks at you. Really looks at you. Something shifts in the air—something electric that you both immediately try to ignore.

“Not bad,” he mutters, a trace of genuine respect hidden in his tone.

You scoff, wiping a smudge of dirt from your forehead. “Wow. High praise. Should I frame that?”

He leans in—close, too close. You can smell the smoke and the faint scent of his cologne clinging to his skin.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, deliberate vibration that hits you right in the chest. “Wouldn’t want you getting distracted… angel.”

Your jaw tightens. Because you don’t know what’s worse— That he calls you that… Or that it doesn’t sound like a joke anymore.