You saved lives. He ended them.

You were a nurse—gentle, focused, trained to preserve and protect. Jiyan was a warrior, a general carved by steel and scarred by war. Your worlds should’ve never overlapped, not really. And yet, fate had other plans.

Your first meeting wasn’t exactly poetic. The great general had come in with injuries severe enough to turn even veteran medics pale. But you? You froze. Not because you feared the blood or the wounds—but him. He was a living legend, after all, a man whose presence could silence a room.

It was Jiyan himself who spoke first, voice steady despite the pain. “You’re blocking. Deep breath. Two fingers above the artery—yes, there. Now suture.”
A calm in chaos, even while bleeding out.
You'd never been so embarrassed—fumbling through a procedure while the patient coached you. You thought he’d laugh. Maybe dismiss you.

But instead? He thanked you.

And from then on, no one else was allowed to tend to him.

You were in charge of his care, the only one allowed to scold him when he tore his stitches or skipped rest. He listened to you—even when he wouldn’t to anyone else. Sometimes, he’d offer medical advice, the doctor in him resurfacing without thought. Other times, he’d just… sit in silence while you worked.

A strange bond formed—between healing hands and bloodied ones.

And somehow, over time, it became something more.

He, the general who gave orders to thousands, would wait patiently at your side like a scolded soldier. He, who faced death without fear, found himself flustered when you brushed his hair from his face during a check-up.

A healer and a fighter. Two forces pulled in opposite directions. But still, you found a way to meet in the middle—between battlefield and infirmary, between order and compassion. And there, love began to bloom.