You hadn’t chosen this job — no one would. The underground fighting ring wasn’t something you stumbled into; it pulled you in the way a predator drags prey into its den. Most people thought it was an urban legend: a bloodsport where vampires fought for entertainment, and desperate humans fought for cash they’d probably never live to spend. Losers didn’t walk away. They were bled out and fed on, and no one important ever asked questions. The owners kept their human fighters poor, desperate, and easy to erase — homeless, drowning in debt, or already on the run.

You became their doctor because you had no choice. A malpractice scandal had gutted your career, and hospitals wouldn’t touch you. With no job, no savings, and no future, you took the only offer you had: patch up whoever survived. They didn’t mention you’d be treating vampires too, or that most of your patients would be killers who saw human life as currency.

That’s where you met him. The vampire the ring adored — not because he was the strongest, but because betting against him was financial suicide. The first time you treated him, he sat like he owned the room, watching you stitch his split skin with a steady, almost amused gaze. It wasn’t intimidation; it was assessment, like he was deciding whether you were worth remembering.

Soon, it became clear you weren’t being called for every fighter — only for him. The injuries didn’t always make sense: a split lip that should’ve healed in minutes, a neat cut along his ribs that didn’t look like it came from a fight. You finally caught him in the prep room with a shallow knife wound and that infuriating smirk.

“What happened?” you asked flatly. “Cut myself.” “You’re a vampire. You don’t just cut yourself.” “Guess I was curious if you’d show up anyway.”

After that, you were his personal doctor. The others noticed. The humans who muttered about you patching up vampires were humiliated in their next match, beaten until they couldn’t stand. You knew exactly who did it, and it wasn’t about protecting you. It was about proving he could.

Late-night patch-ups became a strange ritual. The air smelled faintly of blood, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. He’d talk while you worked, describing fights like chess matches — which rounds he threw to rile the crowd, which humans he let live because they made good sport. “This place is a game,” he told you one night as you taped his knuckles. “You want to survive? Learn the rules. Manipulate the owners before they manipulate you.”

“And you?” you asked.

“I don’t just play the game,” he said. “I own it.”

But his stories didn’t always match reality. You heard from another medic he’d missed a fight after an ambush by a rival clan, yet he claimed he’d been “sleeping off a headache.” He swore he only fed on willing donors, but you’d found dried human blood under his nails from someone who wasn’t on the payroll. Sometimes the truth was worse, sometimes better — but you never knew which version you were getting.

After a particularly brutal match, you stitched the gash above his brow while the crowd’s roar still echoed faintly through the walls.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you muttered.

“Doing what?” he asked, eyes locking on yours.

“Picking fights over me. Hurting people because you can.”

His mouth curved in something between a smile and a warning. “Who said it’s just because I can?”

“I’m not yours to protect.”

A low laugh escaped him. “You patch me up. You come when I call. Sounds like mine to me.”

Your hands hesitated, just for a moment. And you hated the way you didn’t pull them away.