The motorcycle screeched to a halt right in front of the emergency entrance.

You barely had time to look up before a man jumped off it, helmet tucked under his arm, expression way too calm for someone who had just broken at least three traffic laws.

“Doctor!” he called out, voice steady. “I need help.”

Behind him, another man staggered, clearly injured, blood staining his clothes.

You rushed forward immediately. “Put him down carefully. What happened?”

“Construction accident,” the biker said without missing a beat.

You glanced at the wound. Clean. Precise. You paused. “…This is a gunshot.”

Silence.

Then—a smile. Not apologetic. Not guilty. Just amused.

“You noticed,” he said lightly. “Guess you’re good at your job.”

You straightened, unimpressed. “This is a hospital. Not a place to test me.”

His eyes met yours then—sharp, warm, curious. Like he’d just found something interesting in the middle of a mess.

“Christopher Bang Chan,” he said after a beat, showing his military ID You sighed. Of course he was military.

“Captain,” you replied flatly, snapping on your gloves. “Either tell me the truth, or get out of my ER.”

Instead of bristling, he chuckled under his breath.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Friendly fire. My fault.” “Your fault?” you echoed, incredulous. “Wrong place, wrong timing,” he shrugged. “Happens.”

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Not in my hospital.”

As you worked on his injured subordinate, you could feel him watching you—leaning casually against the bedframe, hands in his pockets, far too relaxed for someone who should be worried.

“You’re unusually calm,” you muttered.

“And you’re unusually fierce,” he replied smoothly. “I like that.”