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The man's eyes fluttered open — stunning hazel, even as they dimmed with pain. They locked on hers, pleading silently for help.
"You're… poisoned," she breathed. "You're poisoned, aren't you?"
He didn't answer. He just stared, his body trembling.
Her mind raced. Should she call the police? The ambulance? The Ghostbusters?
But he looked like he wouldn't survive another five minutes if she waited.
"Think, Harley. THINK!" she said to herself, pacing rapidly. Then her gaze fell on the door leading to her small private lab — the room she used for her DIY science projects and questionable experiments.
"This is a bad idea," she muttered, dragging his heavy body toward the hallway. "Harley, you're going to regret this. You might be helping a vampire, or a demon, or— ugh, why can't hot guys ever just be normal?"
It took her every ounce of strength, but she managed to get him onto the bed in her lab. His body was unnaturally cold, like he'd been lying in snow for hours.
She grabbed a pair of scissors, exhaled deeply, and cut through the red silk sash tied around his waist. The robe loosened and fell open.
Her eyes widened in horror.
There — across his ribs — was a massive, dark wound that glowed faintly around the edges. The black veins around it pulsed slowly, like living shadows crawling under his skin.
"What the hell…" she gasped, covering her mouth. "That's not poison. That's… that's like a curse."
Her voice shook as she moved closer. "Who are you?" she whispered. "Because no ordinary human could survive this."
She grabbed her stethoscope, pressed it to his chest — his heartbeat was faint, unsteady, like a drumbeat fading into silence. His skin had gone completely pale, his lips turning a ghostly white.
"Don't you dare die on me," she muttered. "I did not drag a mysterious ancient cosplay prince into my house just for him to die on my bed."
He groaned again, the sound weak and pained.
She looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, a strange feeling pricked her chest. It wasn't just fear or curiosity. It was something else. Something that made her heart race faster than it should.
"Hang in there," she whispered. "You're not dying tonight, not if I can help it."
Harley rushed to her drawer and grabbed her first aid kit — peroxide, gauze, antiseptic, whatever she could find. She dabbed the wound, but the black liquid hissed like acid, burning the fabric.
She jerked back. "Okay, okay, note to self — not normal poison. Totally demonic. Great."
He coughed, his hand twitching as if trying to reach for her. "Don't… touch…" he rasped, his voice hoarse and foreign.
She froze. "Wait — you can talk?"
His eyes fluttered open again, dim but desperate. "If you touch… it… it spreads."
She swallowed. "Oh. Fantastic. So my patient comes with an infection and a warning label."
He tried to speak again, but only a strained breath escaped. His body went still.
Panic gripped her chest. She leaned closer, pressing her ear to his heart — it was still beating, barely.
"Come on, stranger," she whispered fiercely. "Don't die. You just broke into my kitchen, ruined my night, and probably cursed my floor — the least you can do is survive."
She tightened the blanket around him and sat by his side, biting her lip. Outside, thunder rumbled, shaking the windows. Inside, the air grew cold, and for a fleeting moment, she could've sworn she saw the shadow of wings flicker across the wall.
Whoever this man was, he wasn't from here.
And something told her… this was only the beginning.
Harley yanked open the drawer like she was extracting forbidden snacks from the highest shelf of fate. Her fingers closed around a squat white bottle, the kind of bottle that looked innocent until it started whispering your secrets. The label read: "Spiritual Water — Grandma's Knock-You-Back-and-Heal-You Potion (Do Not Drink With Soda)."
"This," she declared to the very attractive heap of human-ish limbs on her floor, "is not ordinary. This is a magical antidote. It cures poison, disease, supernatural awkwardness, and bad Tinder decisions. I hope it works on you."
She uncorked it with the dramatic flair she reserved for opening exam results and poured the glossy liquid over the stranger's open wound. He groaned like a phone on 2% battery.
Harley had an impressive résumé in village medicine: she'd apprenticed under her grandmother in Mount Shao — a woman whose medical chart looked suspiciously like a spellbook — and learned how to brew everything from calming poultices to suspiciously effective cough cures. What Harley had not practiced, however, was "Anything That Looks Like It Was Injured By A Myth." This was new even by Mount Shao standards. She prayed, muttered a few herbs-and-grandma-approved incantations, and hoped the bottle was not a decorative prop.
After a few minutes, the creeping spread of poison slowed. The wound knit like a zipper being handled by a surprisingly competent tailor. Harley's eyes went wide.
"Oh my God, it's actually— it's working! Praise be to Granny, and to really good labeling!" she squealed, clapping, because apparently now was the appropriate time for applause.
The stranger's breathing smoothed. His chest rose and fell in pleasingly rhythmic intervals — not the chaotic flail of someone auditioning for a horror scene. Harley exhaled, like a kettle finally deciding to stop judging her.
She watched him with the wary affection someone reserves for a blender that once leaked. If he woke up and immediately ripped the couch in half, she wanted CCTV footage for insurance claims. Also for science. "What will he do if he gets better? Will he politely thank me and leave? Will he try to pay rent? Will he bite me?" Her brain supplied a list of hypotheticals and none of them included "bring casserole."