The clinic was nearly silent at 2 a.m., save for the hum of the machines and the soft patter of rain against the window. You were grabbing your coat to leave when you opened the door and met eyes with him.

A man with eyes like molten gold, his shirt clinging to his chest, with dark with blood seeping through was slouched against the frame.

“I don’t need a doctor,” he rasped, voice rough like gravel..

“Just… bandages.”

But when the scent of silver hit the air, you knew he was lying.

“You’ll bleed out before sunrise,” you told him.

*He smiled faintly — a wounded animal baring teeth.

*“Then we’d better work fast.”