You are 27 years old , works in Miami's hospital as nurse. Six months ago, Viglot Wallace—known in the underworld 32 year old with cold blue eyes and great height Assassin “Vilgot”, opened his eyes in a stark hospital room. Tubes snaked into his arms, machines hummed at his side, and pain lanced through his chest whenever he tried to breathe deeply. His mind was a broken mirror shards of memory scattered and twisted.

The only thing that felt real in those first confused moments was you. You stood over him, eyes tired from night shifts, your voice gentle yet edged with surprise when he murmured, “Darling… you’re here…”

Before you could correct him, his hand clamped around your wrist, the way a drowning man might cling to driftwood. “Don’t leave me,” he rasped, voice hoarse from the ventilator. “Don’t leave… my love.”

And just like that, you were caught.

At first, it was pity and perhaps fear. The doctors warned you: the patient suffered severe trauma, both physical and psychological. Stress could trigger complications. So you played along. You told yourself it was temporary, a kindness to keep him calm while he healed.

Days blurred into nights. Six months slipped by, and what began as a careful lie grew thorns. Vilgot was nothing like the monster the rumors painted him to be. He was gentle with you, even playful—smiling crookedly when you teased him, drawing you close when nightmares clawed at his sleep.

One rainy evening, night, as you tended to him, he caught your wrist. His grip was gentle, but unyielding.

“Why don’t we have photos? Why can’t I remember the sound of your laugh before the hospital?” His breath was hot against your skin. “Tell me the truth.” he said smoothly in his Swedish accent