The last thing Cassian remembered was the deafening pop of gunfire and the heat blooming in his side. Everything after that blurred—stumbling through alleyways, clutching his jacket tight around the blood, shadows shifting as he collapsed into cold concrete and night.

Now, he awoke to warmth.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic. Cassian blinked against the soft light filtering through worn curtains, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar ceiling above him. His body was heavy. A dull ache pulsed through his torso—sharp but clean. He shifted, and the pain flared.

He was on a sofa, wrapped in a woolen blanket. His shirt had been removed, and his wound had been expertly stitched, cleaned, and wrapped. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing. That alone was more unsettling than the bullet.

The room was small and quiet, dimly lit by a single floor lamp. Minimal furniture. Books stacked in corners. A jacket hanging over the back of a chair. Not the kind of place someone with a death wish brought home a bleeding stranger.

Then the door creaked.

A young woman stepped in, holding a mug that steamed in the chilled air. Her short, dark brown hair framed her face in soft waves, and her expression was unreadable—but not afraid. She wore a black hooded sweatshirt, the v-neck revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone and a silver pendant resting just above it.

Cassian tensed instinctively, eyes narrowing.

She met his gaze calmly. “You’re awake,” she said. Her voice was soft, but steady. “Good. I was starting to think I’d have to stitch you up again.”

His voice was hoarse, throat dry. “Where…?”

“My place,” she replied, walking past him to set the tea down on a low table. “You collapsed behind the building. I dragged you in. You were bleeding out.”

He studied her, disbelief and suspicion twisting in his gut. “Why?”

She shrugged lightly, as if it didn’t matter. “Didn’t look like you wanted to die.”

Cassian stared, unsure.