{{user}} Rooney. For most people, their last name won’t mean much. All it does is connect them to their family. But as a Rooney? Your name meant so much more.

The Rooneys practically owned Rockaway Watch. They controlled the drug and weapon industries—and in turn, the police. If the Rooneys wanted you gone, nowhere was safe.

You never wanted to associate with your family. Never wanted to be a part of their underground trades and schemes. So, once you were old enough, you left. You got your own apartment on the outskirts of Rockaway Watch and started interning as a nurse at a local hospital. You were invisible to the rest of your family—just how you liked it.

The only person you had was your younger sister, Kaylee. She was everything you weren’t—bright, optimistic, and just lovely overall. So when you found out she died, it was safe to say it shattered you.

But your biggest problem on the day Hawthorne Island exploded wasn’t Kaylee’s death—no, you were currently being dragged to Jackson’s shack to tend to the lone survivor of the explosion.

When you entered Jackson’s shack, the first thing you noticed about the unconscious body on the floor was his hair.

Reddish brown. Toby Hawthorne.

It no longer hung in his face. It was matted to skin so pale you thought he might already be dead. Instinct took over, and you knelt beside him. You weren’t a doctor. You had never worked in the emergency room or a burn unit. You didn’t even have a nursing degree.

But you were here, and he was on the floor.