Morning. Spring was making itself known: birds were chirping outside the windows, the air was light, bright, full of a quiet promise.
Tomas woke up.
I need to get up. Work today. Shower first… then I'll make breakfast while Laura is still asleep.
At the same moment, in the other room, Laura blinked awake.
Work again… but I wish I could do something with Tomas. Just with him.
She reached for her new phone. Her heart skipped a beat the moment she saw it. A smile appeared on her lips without her permission.
Time to get up. Maybe I should shower too.
She got dressed and stepped out of her room.
Empty.
Did he already leave for work?
Suddenly—
THUD.
They bumped into each other in the bathroom doorway.
Tomas stood there with wet hair, droplets rolling down his shoulders. His thin T-shirt was still damp from the shower, clinging to the lines of his chest and arms.
He spoke calmly, though his eyes avoided hers for a second:
"Good morning."
Laura's brain shut down. Her face burst into flames.
"G-g-good… morning!" she squeaked.
"While you shower, I'll make breakfast," Tomas said with a warm smile.
"Thank you…" she whispered and slipped past him, bright red, into the bathroom.
A short while later, she emerged—and the kitchen was filled with the scent of golden pancakes.
Tomas stood by the stove, flipping them carefully with a spatula.
Laura stepped closer.
"Need any help?"
"No, I'm almost done."
"Next time I'll cook!" she declared proudly.
"All right. I want to taste your cooking," Tomas answered sincerely.
Her cheeks warmed again.
He placed a full plate of pancakes on the table, set out two cups of steaming coffee, and a bottle of syrup.
"We can eat."
Laura stared at the breakfast with shining eyes.
I used to only dream of mornings like this… I never thought they'd actually be mine.
They ate and talked softly.
"I'll be working until evening," Tomas said. "What about you?"
"Same, but I'm not sure until what time."
Tomas hesitated, then asked:
"So… will we text each other?"
Laura lit up like the morning sun.
"We will!"
He blushed too, and quietly added:
"By the way… do you know when your next day off is?"
Her heart jumped.
"Why?" she asked, already sensing something.
"I found a nice restaurant… I've never been to a place like that. I'd like to try it. And there's another beautiful spot in the city I want to show you. If you'd like to go together," he mumbled, cheeks burning.
Laura nearly exploded.
He's asking me on a date?!
"Yes! I would very, very, VERY much like to go with you!" she squeaked.
"Today I'll find out my free day and text you!"
"Good," he said with the biggest smile she had ever seen on him.
After breakfast, he stood up.
"I have to go. See you tonight."
She watched him leave, feeling as if her soul floated after him.
What will I wear? What if it's too much? What if it's not enough?!
"Laura, calm down!" she muttered to herself, grabbed her things, and rushed to work.
---
Industrial District – Tomas
He took the bus to the industrial district—asked to fill in at the auto parts workshop because several workers were sick.
He walked down a narrow back street when something caught his eye.
A large pool of blood.
A thin trail of droplets led into an alley.
Tomas followed silently.
A man lay on the ground. Around forty. A tattoo of a black spider near his fingers. A long scar across his eye. A stab wound in the abdomen, a gunshot wound in the shoulder—bleeding heavily.
Tomas knelt beside him, assessing the situation carefully.
First, stop the bleeding.
He tore his own T-shirt into strips and wrapped them tightly around the abdominal wound, applying steady pressure. Each movement was deliberate, controlled—making sure not to worsen the injury. The man groaned, faint and weak, his breaths shallow. Tomas checked for other injuries quickly: the shoulder wound had to be stabilized, and shock was setting in fast.
"I'm calling an ambulance," Tomas said firmly.
"N-no… ambulance…" the man rasped.
"Take me… to Old Foundry Street 3…"
Tomas measured the distance. Five hundred meters. It was close enough.
"All right. But you stay conscious," he instructed, adjusting the makeshift bandage and ensuring it applied consistent pressure. He monitored the man's breathing, pressing his free hand lightly on his chest to encourage deeper, steady inhalations.
"All right. Let's move slowly. Lean on me."
Tomas lifted him carefully onto his back, balancing his weight evenly. Every step was deliberate to prevent jostling the stab wound or aggravating the shoulder injury.
At Old Foundry Street, in front of Tomas rose a tall stone wall, massive, built not so much to protect as to separate. The stones were old and uneven, patches of moss clinging to them. Beyond it stood a large house, closer to a mansion than a home—wide, multi-story, its narrow windows dark and watchful.
The heavy iron gates stood partly open.
Inside stretched a broad gravel courtyard, dotted with weathered statues and a dry, lifeless fountain. Each step echoed too loudly.
Two men were smoking by the gate.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Long dark coats, faces carved from stone. Tattoos crept out from beneath their sleeves. One held his cigarette between his fingers as if ready to put it out on something other than stone.
The moment they saw Viktor, their bodies tensed.
"Viktor! What happened?!"
They rushed forward, helping Tomas lower him to the ground. Tomas felt the yard's attention lock onto him—not a single stare, but dozens.
They moved deeper inside.
On the steps, along the walls, near the entrance—around thirty men stood watching. Some smoked. Others spoke in low voices. All fell silent the moment Tomas crossed the yard with Viktor on his back.
The outlines of firearms beneath tailored jackets.
Faces without smiles.
Tomas felt no panic.
Inside, the house was even more imposing—high ceilings, stone staircases, dark wood, heavy carpets. Luxury without warmth. A place where decisions were made quietly.
They laid Viktor on a wide bed in one of the rooms. Paintings without frames hung crookedly on the walls.
"We need a doctor! Ours is out of town!" one of the men shouted.
Tomas glanced at his watch. He knew he could still barely make it to work—but something inside him stirred.
Then he remembered the list. Number 8: use my medical knowledge to help someone.
He exhaled and turned back.
"What's your blood type?" he asked the nearest man.
"B+."
"Anyone with B or O — come here. And bring a needle, tubing, thread, alcohol, a knife…" Tomas listed what he needed with sharp precision, his voice calm but commanding.
For a moment, everyone froze. Then a young man quickly ran to fetch the items.
Tomas cleaned the wounds as best as he could with alcohol, removing dirt and clot fragments, keeping the man stable with reassurances. He carefully prepared a transfusion line, monitoring both the donor and Viktor's vitals. The blood flowed steadily, restoring color to Viktor's face.
Next, he sutured the abdominal wound with precise, tight stitches. He cleaned and partially closed the gunshot wound, leaving a small drainage opening to prevent swelling. All the while, he instructed the men calmly: adjusting the bandages, keeping Viktor warm, and monitoring for signs of shock.
Two hours later, Viktor lay unconscious but stable. Color returned to his face, breathing steady.
In a few minutes Viktor open eyes and wakeup when look at Tomas and say "You saved my life," he whispered hoarsely. "What do you want? Anything."
Tomas checked the time.
I probably lost my job today. But number 8 is done.
"Pay me for the missed day—and we're even."
The men exchanged baffled looks. Viktor chuckled painfully.
"Strange guy… Give him what he wants. And my contact info. I owe him a favor. What's your name?"
"Tomas."
"I'm Viktor. I won't forget this."
Tomas nodded and left.
Outside, he counted the money. More than a month's salary.
"I could've asked for more," he muttered. He slid Viktor's business card into his pocket. "Who knows… might be useful someday."
Then he froze.
Laura.
He pulled out his phone.
A missed message from her:
"How are you? 😊"
Tomas's lips curled slightly, relief flooding him. Despite the chaos and blood of the morning, a quiet thought lingered: I did something good. And she'll be happy to hear from me.