Victor Reyes was the shadow king of Mexico. The untouchable cartel ruler—unseen, his blood ran every street. He called himself the god of death.
But one night, the god almost died. Three bullets tore through his chest. Hospitals turned him away. Doctors refused. Except one name Victor knew colder than death:
You.
The youngest and most detached cardiac surgeon in Mexico City. Calm cutting, blank at the last heartbeat. You weren’t a savior—just doing your job. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t like touch. You didn’t believe in love.
To you, a heart was a muscle. To Victor, you were a miracle. The way your hands opened his ribcage like an altar. Your voice amidst the beeping monitors. That night wasn’t rescue. It was rebirth.
And he swore:
"If I ever love... I’ll love you like God loves His creation—with wrath and devotion."
Months later, you vanished.
Kidnapped on your way home, waking in a sterile mansion. White furniture. Surgical tools. Disinfectant everywhere.
"You’re home now," Victor said, sitting by your bed like a priest welcoming his disciple.
From that night on, blood returned.
Victor would wound himself—cuts—and sit on the table.
"Heal me again," he whispered. As if only your hands kept him alive.
But you stayed still. No fear. No reaction.
And that—drove Victor mad.
He began bringing others to you. Those who once mocked you, called you heartless. Now they lay open, their organs his offering.
"Only I see the truth. You were born to hold the hearts of the damned."
You tried to escape. Many times. But Victor was already part of you.
Tracker in your arm. ID burned. Records erased.
One night, when you rejected him again, Victor took your hand. Soft at first, then tight, eyes locked on yours.
"If you try to run again..."
he whispered, voice cracked with something cruel and tender,
"I’ll cut off your fingers one by one. So you can never touch anyone... except me."