Amal barely had time to settle into the hospital's rhythm before the world outside her scrubs started bleeding back in.
The antiseptic air and steady beeps of monitors offered a fragile illusion of control, but her phone buzzed relentlessly in her pocket—texts from Min-jun checking if she'd made it to her rounds, a cryptic warning from Ji-yeon Bae about "eyes on the east wing," and a photo from Sumin Kwon of the kitten now curled up on Min-jun's unfinished canvas back at the penthouse.
Each vibration felt like a tether pulling her back to the chaos she'd just escaped, her fingers still smelling faintly of his paint and yesterday's rain.
She pushed through her first consult—a elderly patient with a persistent cough, eyes bright with quiet gratitude—when Dr. Han caught her in the hallway, his usual gruffness softened by concern.
"You look like you wrestled a storm last night," he said, handing her a chart.
"Everything alright?" Amal forced a smile, the kind that hid bruises blooming under her collar.
"Just a late gallery opening," she lied smoothly.
But as she turned away, her reflection in a glass cabinet door showed the truth: dark circles, a fresh scratch on her jaw, and hands that trembled when she gripped her pen too tight.
By midday, the hospital cafeteria became her brief sanctuary. She picked at a plate of rice and vegetables, the foodie's side of her craving something spiced and alive, when her phone lit up again.
Min-jun: *Outside. Need you for 10 minutes.* Her pulse jumped. She slipped out a side door into the employees' parking lot, where his sleek black car idled under a cluster of scraggly trees. He stepped out as she approached, looking too perfect for daylight—dark jacket hugging his frame, hair tousled just enough to seem accidental, but his eyes carried the weight of someone who'd spent centuries outrunning dawn.
"Miss me already?" she teased, leaning against the car. But his expression stopped her cold—not playful, but predatory, scanning the lot like he scented trouble on the wind.
"Ji-yeon's intel was right," he said, voice low. "Two collectors spotted near your rounds last night. They're not here for patients." He reached for her hand, turning it palm-up to inspect faint red marks from the gallery fight—scrapes that hadn't fully healed.
His thumb traced them, gentle but possessive, and she felt the familiar thrill of his touch, cool against her warmth.
"I need you to stay inside until I handle it."
Amal pulled her hand back, not harshly, but enough to reclaim space.
"Handle it how? By painting them into submission?" She meant it as a joke, picturing his canvas splashed with their silhouettes, but his jaw tightened, fangs pressing subtly against his lower lip—a tell she'd learned to read like a brushstroke.
"Not funny," he murmured, stepping closer until the space between them hummed with tension. His hand found her waist, pulling her against the car door, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just this: his lips brushing her temple, the faint metallic tang of old blood lingering on his breath.
It was adorable how he tried to shield her, thrilling how his body tensed like a coiled spring ready to snap. But suspicious too—why now, mid-shift, when he knew Dr. Han was watching the halls?
She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze. "You're hiding something." Her fingers slipped under his jacket, feeling the hard edge of something tucked against his ribs—a blade? No, heavier. A vial, glass clinking softly. His eyes flickered, caught.
"Insurance," he admitted, voice rough. "From Viktor. If they come for you here..." He didn't finish, but the implication hung red and heavy: he'd stain his hands again, for her.
A car horn blared nearby, shattering the moment. Amal glanced over his shoulder, spotting a nondescript sedan idling at the lot's edge—tinted windows, engine too quiet. Her heart stuttered.
"That's them?"
Min-jun didn't turn. "Stay behind me." In one fluid motion, he pivoted, shielding her body with his, hand dipping into his jacket. But she grabbed his wrist, nails digging in just enough to ground him.
"No killing on hospital grounds," she whispered fiercely, her free hand cupping his jaw to force his eyes back to hers.
"Promise me."
Their breaths mingled, her warmth against his cool eternity, and for a second, his fangs grazed her thumb—accidental, electric. Cute in its rawness, thrilling in its danger.
He exhaled, tension easing fractionally. "Promise."
But as the sedan peeled away, tires screeching, doubt lingered in his eyes like a half-finished sketch.
Back inside, Amal washed her hands under scalding water, watching red-tinged soap swirl down the drain—not blood, just metaphor, but close enough. Her palms still itched from his touch, her mind replaying the vial, the sedan, the way he'd looked ready to unravel centuries of restraint. Min-jun's hands might stay clean for her sake today, but the stains were coming—literal or not. And she knew, deep in her artist's soul, that when they came, she'd paint right alongside him, red hands intertwined.