The clock on the wall ticked faintly in the background, barely audible over the quiet, tense stillness in the kitchen. The only sound filling the room was the occasional sharp, shuddering breath from Mark and the faint scrape of the needle as you carefully threaded it through his torn skin.

He sat slouched in one of the wooden chairs, his broad frame weighing heavily against it. His face was pale, damp with sweat, and streaked with blood. The edges of his lips were crusted with it, and fresh crimson still oozed faintly from the ragged gashes carved into his cheeks. His jaw was locked tight, the muscles visibly tensing and twitching beneath his skin every time the needle pierced through the tender, ruined flesh.

But still, he didn’t flinch. Not really.

The blank, unfeeling mask he always wore remained intact, cold and impassive, except for the occasional brief wince that flickered across his face—gone as quickly as it appeared. He kept his eyes low, focused on the edge of the table or the steady movements of your hands, doing everything in his power to keep himself still. But you could still see the tension in his knuckles, how they gripped the edge of his jeans so tightly that his fingers were turning white.

You hadn’t asked for an explanation when he showed up at your door an hour ago, disheveled, bloodied, and barely able to hold himself upright. You didn’t need to. You already knew. The ‘Reverse Bear Trap’ that Jill Tuck had put him in—an execution meant to tear his jaw apart—had nearly killed him. But somehow, somehow, he had gotten out of it. And when he didn’t know where else to go, when his options were running or bleeding out in the streets, he came to you.

And now, here he was. Sitting in your kitchen, covered in sweat and blood, as you stitched him back together.