"Congratulations on your tenth open heart surgery, Miss Jones," the director said, his voice warm and steady as he handed her the achievement medal. It was a sleek, flat slab of polished stone embedded with real diamonds that caught the light like tiny stars. Etched on the surface in elegant script were the words "FORCE OF MEDICINE"—a title reserved for the elite, the absolute best in the medical field. Not just anywhere, but right here at Elite Mercy Hospital in the heart of Higher Heights, where the city's glittering skyscrapers pierced the night sky like silver needles.
Amelia gasped softly as she took the medal, her fingers brushing the director's in a firm handshake. She was a skilled surgeon in her late twenties, with warm brown skin that glowed under the ceremony lights. At average height, she carried herself with quiet confidence. Her straight brown hair was pulled into a neat bun, framing her sharp brown eyes that missed nothing in the operating room. Today, she wore a tailored brown suit—crisp jacket and pencil skirt—that blended seamlessly with her vibe. To outsiders, it screamed "brown lover," but when anyone asked why she stuck to the earthy shade, she'd flash a sly smile and reply with one word: "Diplomacy." It was her way of staying neutral, unflashy, letting her work shine instead of her style. That choice tucked her radiant beauty into subtle shadows, making her seem more approachable than intimidating—like a steady hand you trusted with your life.
Cameras clicked and flashed like distant fireworks, capturing the moment. Amelia posed awkwardly, one hand on the medal dangling from its chain around her neck, the other giving a small wave. This was her tenth open heart surgery—and her tenth flawless success. She was a workaholic through and through, the kind of overachiever who lived for the rush of the scalpel, the steady beep of monitors, and the quiet victory of a patient waking up stronger. Relationships? Friends? Those were distractions she filed under "later." Work first. Always.
The congratulatory ceremony wrapped up in a blur of handshakes and polite applause. Amelia slipped into her office, a small, organized sanctuary lined with medical journals and a single framed photo of her late father, a doctor who'd inspired her drive. She packed her leather satchel—stethoscope, a dog-eared notebook of case notes, and a half-eaten protein bar—then headed for the elevator. The hospital's marble halls echoed softly as it carried her down to the lobby, where the night air waited like an old friend.
Outside, her orange Audi gleamed under the streetlights—a sleek reward from years of surgeon salaries and long hours. The director had insisted on a full week off: "Go relax, Amelia. You've earned it." But relaxation? She hadn't seen home in three days, not since prepping for that marathon surgery. Now, at 1:00 a.m., the roads of Higher Heights stretched empty and inviting.
She slid into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life with a satisfying hum. Tiredness clawed at her eyelids, whispering temptations to doze off right there on the wheel. But Amelia shook it off, gripping the leather tighter. No way,she thought with a wry scoff. Dying in a crash minutes after nailing a solo open heart? That's black comedy gold. She pictured her family's stunned faces—her overworked mom in the kitchen, her younger brother cracking a weak joke at the funeral. Colleagues would whisper about the irony, toasting her with cheap hospital coffee. Friends? Ha. She didn't have any. Not real ones. Work was her anchor, her everything. No room for slip-ups... or heartaches.
A sharp bang shattered the quiet—like thunder cracking too close. Gunfire. Amelia slammed the brakes, tires screeching as her car lurched to a halt. Shouts echoed from a side street not far off, raw and furious, mixed with the pop-pop-pop of more shots. Engines revved, growing louder, closer. Panic surged in her chest like ice water.
"Gang wars!"she cursed under her breath, hands trembling on the wheel. Higher Heights had its shiny towers, sure, but down here in the veins of the city, rival crews fought over turf like wolves over scraps. She jammed the gas, desperate to peel away—but a wild, misfired bullet whined through the air, slamming into her Audi's side. Two tires blew out in a hiss of rubber, the car slumping like a wounded animal.
Oh God. If the bullet had veered just inches... Her life was in real, mortal danger now. Heart pounding, Amelia ducked low, curling over the console as shards of glass tinkled from a grazed window. Bullets pinged off metal nearby, sparks flashing in the dark. Irony hit her like a gut punch—just moments ago, she'd joked about tempting fate on this empty road. And here the universe was, serving it up hot: not a sleepy crash, but a full-blown ambush. Adrenaline flooded her veins, sharpening every sense—the acrid bite of gunpowder, the distant wail of sirens too far to help.
She twisted the key in the ignition. The engine coughed once, twice, then died with a pathetic sputter. "Come on!" Frustration boiled over; she pounded the steering wheel, the horn blaring in sharp bursts that cut through the chaos. Each hit echoed her rage, but in the back of her mind, a warning flickered: "You're announcing yourself, idiot. Drawing them right to you." Screw it. Staying put was suicide. She needed out—now.
"Yes," she whispered, latching onto the plan like a lifeline. Grab the bag, slip out the back door, run for the nearest alley or lit street. Simple. Survival 101. She snatched her satchel, heart slamming against her ribs, and eased open the rear passenger door. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the metallic tang of blood and exhaust. Crouching low, she stepped onto the pavement, gravel crunching under her heels.
Bang! Another shot cracked the air, the bullet whistling past her ear like a vengeful hornet before vanishing into the shadows. "Oh my God," she breathed, knees nearly buckling. The world narrowed to that sound—the high-pitched zip of death missing her by a breath.
Then, silence. Eerie, heavy, like the calm before a storm's fury. No shouts, no engines revving. Just her ragged breaths and the distant drip of glass from a busted streetlight. Go. Now.! Amelia bolted, legs pumping in a blind sprint down the cracked sidewalk. Her suit jacket flapped like wings, brown fabric blending into the night, but her orange car was a beacon screaming Here I am!
Footsteps? No—tires. A voice sliced the quiet: "Hey, who's that?!" Gravel sprayed as an engine roared to life behind her. They were coming. Fast.
Amelia shrieked, the sound raw and involuntary, fueling her lungs with pure terror. She pushed harder, weaving past overflowing dumpsters and chain-link fences that blurred into gray streaks. But humans had limits—hers was crashing in. Fatigue burned her thighs; her breaths came in desperate gasps, slowing her to a stumbling jog. Keep going. Don't look back!.The pursuing vehicle growled closer, headlights slicing the dark like predator eyes.
Then—a blur of black and chrome. A motorcycle shot past her, engine snarling like a beast unleashed. It swung wide, circling her in a tight arc that forced her to skid to a halt. Tires screeched, smoking the determination from her toes. The rider killed the engine with a flick, the sudden quiet amplifying her hammering pulse.
He swung a leg over the bike, boots hitting the ground with predatory grace. Leather jacket scarred from too many fights, jeans ripped at the knees, a faint scar tracing his jaw like a signature. Slowly, deliberately, he unstrapped his helmet and pulled it free, shaking out a mop of tousled dark hair that fell into eyes like polished obsidian—sharp, unreadable, and locked on her.
"Where are you going, love?" His voice was low, gravel-rough, laced with a smirk that didn't reach those eyes. But beneath the tease lurked something darker: possession. Hunger.. The distant gunfire was heading for her, but the real danger? It had just revved up right in front of her.