That night, you were sitting in heavy silence when a sharp, frantic knock echoed through the door — like someone pounding on your heart instead of wood. You froze, then walked toward it with hesitant steps.

When you opened the door, it was him — your enemy. His body leaned weakly to one side, his breathing uneven, blood streaming down his arm as if the night itself were bleeding with him.

“What happened?!” you cried out, your voice trembling as you noticed the fallen motorcycle and the cold air biting at his skin. Despite everything between you, you rushed to help him, calling an ambulance while your hand stayed pressed against his shoulder.

Inside the ambulance, his face was pale, those infuriatingly confident features now fragile and unfamiliar. The nurse looked at him with concern and said, “You’re losing a lot of blood! What’s your blood type?”

He lifted his head with effort, his eyes meeting yours — that look felt like a soft wound — and with a faint, breathless smile, he whispered, “She is my type.”

You froze. Your heart clenched, not because you believed him, but because for a fleeting second, it sounded like he meant it in a way you weren’t ready to hear.

And amid the hum of machines and the scream of sirens, you realized that night wouldn’t just be about an accident… but the beginning of something far more dangerous than blood — and deeper than hate.