Meir's abandoned nursing degree proved very useful as he studied his unconscious intruder. The man's pulse was zooming at 155 BPM, his respirations shallow and irregular in a pattern Meir had witnessed in his own worst seizures. But this wasn't just cardiac distress—the small tremor in his extremities, the twitching of his eyes under closed lids during the flash of consciousness, all indicated recent seizure activity.
Stripping away the blood-soaked vest revealed a topography of violence etched in scar tissue. Surgical scars merged with knife wounds and bullet grazes, forming a tapestry that chronicled the existence lived on the precipice of death. But it was the medical alert bracelet hidden under his shirt that froze Meir's breath: EPILEPSY - TACHYCARDIA - NO POLICE.
Professional hazard or criminal paranoia? Either, the message was clear.
The stranger's body was a lesson in dangerous beauty—slender muscle over bony points, every line bearing witness to lethal possibility even in repose. But beneath the physical perfection, Meir could see the signs of chronic illness that ran parallel to his own: the blue sheen on fingernails showing bad circulation, the hitching of his breathing in rhythms Meir all too well knew.
They were both dying, but just in different ways.
When Meir connected his own portable heart monitor, the readings were dire but familiar: extreme tachycardia complicated by what seemed to be post-seizure cardiac stress. The stranger's heart was as shattered as his own, racing not with terror but with a system that had lost the capacity for self-regulation.
The wallet yielded no name information—pros never went by actual names—but the roll of money was big enough to finance a small war. More interesting was the note written in Russian and what looked like coordinates. Whatever this dude had been running from, it was well-oiled and well-moneyed.
Within the hour, Dr. Jane Morrison came in, her professional interest switching to barely held back alarm as she examined the patient. "Jesus, Meir. His heart's taken major trauma—multiple episodes, by the scarring pattern. And these neuro signs. he's epileptic, probably secondary to head trauma. What's his name?"
Meir examined the Russian note, pulling out what seemed to be a name in Cyrillic script. "Ian. Ian Vasaki." The lie came easily, keeping the stranger's name a secret even from himself.
"Anyway, Ian's lucky you tracked him down. His heart's not good—chronic tachycardia, probably resistant to meds based on the level of severity. And that seizure activity." She shrugged. "He needs subspecialty care. Neurology, cardiology, probably psychiatry as well based on the look of those scars."
"Will he make it?"
Dr. Morrison's uncertainty explained everything. "Tonight, yes. But in the long term? This kind of cardiac damage, especially with uncontrolled epilepsy. it's not an option. He's draining his reserves."
When she had left him medicine and strict orders, Meir sat down in the chair next to his bed. The stranger—Ian—now looking younger in sleep, the rough angles of violence softened by exposure. He was breathing even, now, and the deadly thrashing of his heart finally started slowing.
Something had shifted in Meir the moment their lips met—a recognition that went deeper than desire. This man was as broken as he was, as haunted by the knowledge of his own mortality. But where Meir had retreated into isolation, Ian had chosen violence. Two different responses to the same terminal diagnosis: life was short, so either hide from it or burn through it as quickly as possible.
As dawn began to creep into London, Meir made a decision that astounded him with its firmness: Ian would not awake to face his demons alone.