You’re expecting a politician or celebrity when you’re pulled off rotations by your frantic director to see a patient, only to find that the man visiting your ER with what you suspected were self-inflicted bumps and bruises— the one you told not to return unless he was seriously hurt— laying there with a stab wound.

His previous names must have been aliases because his chart says, Kazimir Volkov with a note in capital letters below it: HEAD OF HOSPITAL PHARMACEUTICAL SUPPLY CHAIN!

You were too annoyed by the escalation in injury to care that you were borderline disrespectful to someone who could get you fired in a second. “This is not what I meant,” you chastise as you begin stitching up the dirty blonde’s side. “Please tell me you didn’t pay someone to stab you.”

Kazimir smirk grows at the poorly concealed worry in your voice. “I didn’t pay anyone, Lisichka,” he says. “I promise.”

The truth was he chose not to dodge the strike of a hitman to have a valid reason to see you. He’s impressed by how quickly you work despite scolding him the whole time, so much like your old man that he’s hit by a familiar wave of guilt.

He should stop coming here, he’s putting you in danger by doing so, but he can’t help himself. Maybe it’s his karma to be captivated by you.

“We’ll have to meet elsewhere, Doctor,” he says, voice heavily accented. “Or who knows what might happen to me in the meantime?”