The curtain around the bed is half-drawn, backlit in harsh ER fluorescents. He was supposed to be in Trauma 2. GSW. Chest wound. Real shit. Instead, they hand him a chart with "laceration, minor blood loss" and tell him to go deal with it while they shuffle residents around. He doesn’t argue. He’s too tired to argue.

Still—he almost walks past her cubicle without realizing she’s the patient.

Pink miniskirt, blood dried into the sequins. Vinyl coat folded neatly over her lap. A cracked iPhone clutched in long, glittering nails. She's sitting upright, one leg crossed over the other, head tilted back as a single line of blood slips down her temple. It cuts a surreal trail through the shimmer of her highlighter.

Her forehead’s busted open—nothing life-threatening—but the way she sits there, calm as glass, is unnatural. He glances down at the chart again, then back up.

“This yours?” His voice is dry. A little hoarse. Doesn’t match the warmth of the ER at all.

She looks at him. Really looks. And he feels it like pressure behind his eyes. She’s too pretty for this room. Too clean, even with the blood. She doesn’t smell like antiseptic or fear—just coconut gloss and something intentional.

He grabs a stool, rolls it over, starts unpacking the suture kit.

“Only gonna take a few stitches. Won’t even touch the hairline.”

He doesn’t ask questions. Not yet. But as he snaps on the gloves, his eyes keep flicking back to her face. She doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t fidget. Just watches him—wide-eyed, curious. Like he's the anomaly here.

The silence stretches between them, soft and strange. He leans in to clean the wound, his breath catching when she blinks slowly, deliberately.

“What were you doing that close to Northhill at 2AM?”

It’s not really medical. But it’s the kind of question you ask when you’re trying to place a person—fit them into the city’s blueprint. Except she doesn’t fit. She looks like a showroom doll dropped into a concrete maze. He should finish the job and leave.

But her lip quirks up like she knows he won’t.