Rain always made the city look guilty.
Streetlights blurred into gold smudges, like someone tried to wash the night clean but failed.
Natasha Valeria hated night shifts.
Hospitals felt heavier after midnight.
Too quiet.
Too cold.
Too honest.
The emergency ward smelled of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Machines beeped lazily. A nurse yawned at the reception desk.
Natasha adjusted her white coat and tied her hair into a tighter bun.
"Last three hours," she muttered to herself. "You can survive three hours."
She checked the patient files again.
Nothing serious tonight.
A fever.
A fractured wrist.
One food poisoning case.
Peaceful.
Suspiciously peaceful.
Because life had taught her one thing—
When things get quiet…
something bad is coming.
And right on cue—
BANG.
The emergency doors slammed open.
Two men rushed in.
One of them was bleeding.
A lot.
"Doctor!" someone shouted. "Help him!"
Natasha froze for half a second.
Not because of the blood.
She was used to blood.
It was the men.
Black suits.
Expensive watches.
Cold eyes.
Not family.
Not friends.
Guards.
The injured man wasn't walking.
They were carrying him like something precious.
Or dangerous.
Her instincts whispered:
This isn't normal.
But her training shouted louder.
Patient first. Questions later.
"Put him on the bed," she ordered.
Her voice automatically switched to professional mode.
Calm. Sharp. Controlled.
They obeyed immediately.
Too immediately.
She noticed that.
People usually argued with doctors.
These men didn't.
They followed.
Like soldiers.
Like they were used to taking orders.
Or giving them.
She cut open the blood-soaked shirt with scissors.
A bullet graze.
Deep, but not fatal.
Still bleeding badly.
"Who did this?" she asked.
Silence.
The two men exchanged looks.
One of them said quietly,
"He fell."
Natasha stared at him.
"…You think I'm stupid?"
No reply.
She sighed.
"Fine. If you don't talk, don't talk. Just don't faint on me."
She started cleaning the wound.
Her hands were steady.
Always steady.
Even when her heart wasn't.
Then—
The patient moved.
A low groan.
Her eyes shifted to his face for the first time.
And she paused.
Oh.
He was—
Annoyingly handsome.
Sharp jaw. Pale skin. Dark hair falling over his forehead. Even unconscious, he looked… dangerous.
Not movie-star handsome.
More like—
Don't-make-eye-contact-at-night handsome.
The kind your mother warns you about.
His eyelids fluttered open slowly.
Dark eyes.
Too sharp.
Too aware.
He didn't look confused.
He looked calculating.
Like even half-dead, he was analyzing the room.
Then his gaze landed on her.
Locked.
Didn't move.
Didn't blink.
It made her uncomfortable.
"Don't move," she said. "You'll reopen the wound."
He didn't answer.
Just kept staring.
"What's your name?" she asked.
Silence.
She rolled her eyes.
"Okay, mysterious. Fine. I'll write 'Idiot Male, mid-twenties' on your file."
One corner of his lips twitched.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
"Leonard," he said quietly.
His voice was deep.
Rough.
Like he didn't talk much.
"Leonard what?"
A pause.
"…Vale."
She nodded.
"Good. See? Talking isn't that hard."
He watched her work.
Every stitch.
Every movement.
Like she was the one under observation.
"You're calm," he said suddenly.
Natasha didn't look up.
"I'm a doctor. If I panic every time I see blood, I'd be jobless."
"Most people panic around me."
Now that made her glance up.
"…Should I?"
Their eyes met.
For a second, something strange passed between them.
Not fear.
Not comfort.
Recognition.
Like two people from different worlds accidentally crossed paths.
He said quietly,
"You don't ask questions."
"I do," she replied. "I just don't expect answers."
That earned a real smile.
Small.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
And for some reason—
Her heart skipped.
Annoying.
Very annoying.
Focus, Natasha.
He's just a patient.
Nothing else.
Nothing more.
She finished the stitches and wrapped the bandage.
"Done. No heavy movement for a few days. And avoid getting shot again. Very inconvenient for me."
He chuckled softly.
Low.
Warm.
Unexpected.
"You're different," he said.
"From?"
"Everyone."
She shrugged.
"I'm just tired."
One of the suited men stepped closer.
"Boss, we should go."
Boss.
The word slipped out casually.
But it hit her like ice water.
Boss?
Her eyes flickered between them.
Then everything clicked.
The suits.
The silence.
The obedience.
The bullet.
Oh.
Oh no.
Not business boss.
Not office boss.
The other kind.
The kind newspapers don't print names of.
The kind police pretend not to see.
Mafia.
Her stomach tightened.
But she kept her face neutral.
Professional mask back on.
She handed him the prescription sheet.
"Antibiotics. Painkillers. Follow instructions."
He took it.
Their fingers brushed.
Warm.
Electric.
Why electric?!
Stop it, Natasha.
Before leaving, he paused.
Looked at her again.
Longer this time.
Like memorizing her face.
"What's your name, doctor?"
"…Natasha."
He repeated it softly.
"Natasha."
Like tasting it.
Like keeping it.
Then he said something strange.
"Thank you… for not being scared."
She forced a small smile.
"I don't scare easily."
His eyes darkened slightly.
"That's dangerous."
And then—
He left.
Just like that.
Taking the tension with him.
The ward suddenly felt normal again.
Too normal.
Natasha exhaled.
"…Great. I just treated a criminal. Fantastic life choices."
But for some reason—
Even hours later…
Even while driving home…
Even while trying to sleep…
She kept remembering his eyes.
Dark.
Quiet.
Lonely.
Like a man carrying too many sins.
She told herself it didn't matter.
He was just a patient.
A stranger.
Someone she'd never see again.
Right?
Outside her apartment—
A black car stopped.
Engine running.
Lights off.
Inside—
Leonard Vale watched her building silently.
His bandaged hand resting on the steering wheel.
His men waited.
But he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just staring up at one specific window.
Then he murmured to himself—
"Interesting."
For the first time in years…
Leonard Vale broke one of his rules.
He remembered a name.
Natasha.
And that—
Was the beginning of every problem.