A single, isolated streetlight illuminated the street below, made shiny by the rain that had fallen incessantly all day, painting the sky and the day in shades of grey. Darkness had now fallen, and wisps of dark clouds drifted slowly across the black sky.
The small living room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a lamp placed on a piece of furniture across the room. A tall window stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall. The bed and a light-colored wooden dresser were positioned along the wall beneath the window. On the adjacent wall where the bed stood, a door led into the bathroom. Opposite the window was the entrance to the apartment, next to which stood a tall chest of drawers. A small sofa with a couple of cushions and a plaid throw, along with a square steel-and-glass coffee table, completed the furnishings of the small space. Opposite the bathroom door was the entrance to the kitchen—also small. It was furnished with cream-colored cabinets and included only the essentials: a sink, a stove, and a microwave oven. After all, Alex wasn't much of a cook. The apartment was rented, and most of the furniture had already been there. She often traveled and didn't like to carry too much. She traveled light.
A noise made Alex turn. She let the curtain fall back into place after having pulled it aside to look outside. The man on the bed stirred and opened his eyes. In the dim light, long shadows traced the lines of his face, concealing his gaze. Alex didn't move.
"Welcome back," she said. "How are you feeling?"
The man looked at her, his brow furrowing in an effort to focus and recognize her. He tried to sit up, but a grimace of pain twisted his features. He let himself fall back onto the pillows.
"I think you'd better stay lying down. Your wounds might reopen."
He looked down at himself and ran a hand over the bandages.
"You did this?"
She nodded.
"Thank you."
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes," he replied. "But I don't want to cause you any more trouble. Actually..."—he tried to sit up again—"...I think it's time I go."
"Actually, I think you should stay put. You're safe here. I doubt you'd get very far in your condition—and besides, it took me almost an hour to stitch you up, and I'd be pretty annoyed if I had to do it all over again."
Cutting short the discussion, Alex went to the kitchen and took a packet of chicken curry from the freezer, placing it in the microwave. When it was ready, she returned to help the man sit up more comfortably, then handed him the dish.
"Thanks."
Alex sat in the armchair and watched him. Finally, she asked,
"What happened to you?"
He looked at her, then at himself, trying to piece together his memories.
"I think I was attacked..."
A flash of open jaws rushing toward him passed through his mind.
Alex waited a few moments before continuing.
"Why didn't you want me to call an ambulance?"
The answer was simple: if doctors discovered his unusual physiology, he'd end up locked in a lab as a guinea pig. But that wasn't something he could explain to his host.
"The people who attacked me... they might have found me."
"The police would have protected you."
He looked at her, trying to inject as much sincerity into his gaze as possible.
"I'm not a murderer, or a thief, or a drug dealer, or anything like that. I was just afraid those people would find me and finish what they started."
She nodded slowly.
"And may I ask why they wanted to kill you?"
"That's the thing—I have no idea. I don't even know who those men were."
Alex evaluated the stranger and the words he had spoken. Over the years, she had learned to read people, to weigh their words and recognize lies. He seemed sincere. He wasn't telling her everything, but it looked like even he didn't truly understand what had happened to him.
"Eat, before it gets cold," she said.
He nodded and resumed eating in silence. When he finished, he handed her the empty dish.
"That was excellent. Thank you."
Alex stood, took the plate to the kitchen, and returned with two glasses of water.
"Thanks," he said as he accepted one. "What's your name?"
"Alex. And yours?"
"Michael."
"Well, Michael," she said, sitting beside him on the bed, "I think we'd better check those bandages."
She turned on the main light and gently pulled back the covers. She paused for a moment, blinking. Then she ran a hand lightly over Michael's chest.
"The bruises, the scrapes... they're gone!" she said in disbelief.
He looked down at his chest.
"It wasn't anything serious," he said. "And I heal very quickly."
"A little too quickly... not even a trace left."
"You did a great job treating me."
She raised an eyebrow skeptically, then let it drop.
"Okay, let's check the wound."
She carefully removed the bandage that wrapped around his chest, revealing the long gash that ran from his right side nearly to his left shoulder. She was almost surprised to see it still there.
"It's healing," she said. "I'm afraid it'll leave a scar, though. The cut was pretty rough."
"It's fine. You found me in the street, brought me into your home, and took care of me. I'm in your debt."
His eyes met hers, steady and deep green.
"No debt. You don't owe me anything," Alex replied, beginning to replace the dressing. She could feel his eyes on her. Then she moved on to the bandage on his arm.
He watched her. Her scent was pleasant, her touch gentle and light.
When she finished, Alex stood up.
"Is there anyone you want to call?"
Michael thought for a moment.
"No," he said finally.
"Then you'd better get some more rest. There are some clothes on the chair—they should fit you."
And with that, she headed back to the kitchen to tidy up.