Within the heavy silence of his luxurious suite, where the scent of expensive cigars mingled with the metallic tang of blood, you moved with frantic urgency. You rushed toward him, your medical kit trembling in your hands, your heart hammering against your ribs—not out of fear of his power, but out of a desperate fear for his life. He sat there on the leather armchair, his white shirt soaked in crimson blooming from his shoulder. His features remained as cold and unyielding as stone, as if the bullet hadn't pierced his flesh, but rather struck a block of ice. You immediately began cutting away the fabric around the wound. Your hands moved with professional precision, yet your eyes shimmered with suppressed tears. As you pressed the gauze to stem the flow of blood and began to disinfect the area, you felt a slight tremor run through his body. In a low, strained whisper, your eyes fixed on the jagged wound that required immediate stitching, you said: "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, but please, just endure it." At that moment, you felt his gaze. It hadn't left your face since you entered the room. It wasn't a look of agony, but a predatory, consuming stare—deep and dark, as if he were drawing his very strength from your anxious features. In a voice that was hoarse yet smooth, he leaned his head back slightly to be closer to you, completely ignoring the lead in his shoulder: "I only endure it to have your face this close to mine... and to feel your breath fanning against my shoulder."