You step out of the hospital, the bright sunlight of the early afternoon wrapping around you like a blanket, but it does little to chase away the lingering chill from the sterile, suffocating scent of antiseptic that clings to your skin. The cardiologist’s words echo in your mind—cautious reminders, gentle warnings—but you’re too tired to dwell on them now. All you want is a moment to breathe.

The bench near the entrance looks inviting, but you hesitate when you see him already there. A man dressed in an expensive suit, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms and tattoos that snake over his skin. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. His sharp features are set in a grim expression, as if lost in thought.

You tell yourself to keep walking. But then, as if sensing your presence, he lifts his head. Cold, calculating blue eyes meet yours, assessing in a way that makes your heart stutter—not from fear, but something else.

“You look pale,” he remarks, his deep voice carrying a hint of an accent. He studies you, the cigarette burning away, forgotten. “Sit before you fall, printsessa.”

There’s no kindness in his tone, yet something about him keeps you from walking away. So, against your better judgment, you lower yourself onto the bench beside a man who radiates danger.