The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of Emily's apartment, casting soft gold across the room where Isabella lay curled on the couch, tangled in a blanket that smelled faintly of vanilla and warm fabric softener. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the brightness. For a moment, she was confused—this wasn't her bed, nor her usual routine of alarms and rushing to the hospital.
Then it clicked.
Emily's apartment.
A break from the hospital.
A rare escape from the monotony of blood samples, fluorescent lights, and aching feet.
She stretched her limbs lazily, yawned, and sat up just as Emily walked out from the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt and fuzzy slippers, carrying two mugs of steaming hot chocolate.
"Sleeping Beauty awakens," Emily teased, plopping down beside her and handing her a mug.
Isabella chuckled softly. "You have no idea how good it feels not to wake up to a patient screaming or someone calling my name from the next ward."
Emily grinned. "This is the life, babe. Rest, warmth, and zero responsibilities. You're mine for a week, and we are going to make it count."
And they did.
That day passed in laughter and movie marathons, both of them curled up in front of Emily's big screen TV, sharing a huge bowl of buttery popcorn. They danced around the apartment in pajamas, painted each other's nails, and shared secrets about work, life, and love—or in Isabella's case, the lack of it.
Later that evening, Emily stood by her open wardrobe, flipping through dresses with the kind of excitement Isabella had only ever seen in teenage girls on prom night.
"We're going out tonight."
Isabella raised a brow from the bed. "Out? Where?"
Emily turned with a devilish grin. "Club Aurora. It's Friday night, Isa. You're in your twenties, single, gorgeous and on break. You need to remember what it means to be alive."
"I don't think clubbing is my thing…"
"Which is exactly why I'm dragging you out. C'mon, just for a few hours."
Before Isabella could protest further, Emily had tossed a red dress onto the bed. She followed it with black strappy heels, and then walked over with a small makeup bag.
"Sit. I'm doing your face."
Isabella opened her mouth, but Emily cut her off. "No arguments."
With a defeated sigh, Isabella obeyed.
Emily tied her hair up, applied foundation like a pro, gave her a soft smoky eye, and lined her lips with a deep rose gloss.
When she was done, Isabella barely recognized herself in the mirror.
"You look… wow." Isabella blinked.
"Told you I'm good," Emily said proudly, then reached into the closet again and pulled out a backup dress. A short, tight black number with a low back.
"You're not wearing that red thing. You're wearing this."
"What?! Emily—"
"Nope. You've got the body, the face, the mystery. Show it off. Besides, it hugs your waistline like magic."
Before she could argue, Emily had unzipped her, and in a flurry of clothes and perfume, they were both ready. Two gorgeous women stepping into the night with the kind of energy that turned heads.
---
Club Aurora pulsed with life. The lights flashed in hypnotic patterns, casting a kaleidoscope of color over the crowd of dancing bodies. The music was loud, the bass vibrating through the floor, and the air was heavy with perfume, sweat, and alcohol.
Emily grabbed Isabella's hand and pulled her through the crowd to the bar.
"Two mojitos!" she shouted to the bartender.
Isabella laughed nervously, still adjusting to the environment. She could feel eyes on her—men turning to look, women watching her dress. It was overwhelming but oddly thrilling.
They sipped their drinks and danced a little. Emily blended in effortlessly, swaying with the music, laughing with strangers, pulling Isabella along.
After a while, Isabella leaned into her and said, "I need to pee."
Emily nodded, distracted by a tall man who'd started dancing beside her. "To the left, past the DJ."
Isabella slipped away, weaving through the crowd toward the restroom hallway.
It was quieter there. Dimmer. She leaned against the wall for a second to breathe.
Then a shadow blocked her view.
A man—middle-aged, taller than her, with a beer belly and a predatory grin—stepped forward. He reeked of whiskey and stale cologne.
"Hey there, sweet thing. You look lost."
"I'm fine, thanks," Isabella said quickly, trying to step past him.
But he moved in front of her again. "Nah, don't rush. Stay. Let me keep you company."
"I said I'm fine," she said, more firmly.
His grin widened. "Don't play hard to get."
Then he reached for her arm.
Isabella froze, panic flaring in her chest. Her heart raced. Her voice caught in her throat.
The man leaned in.
And then—he was gone.
No, not gone.
Thrown.
Slammed into the opposite wall with a loud crack that echoed down the hallway.
Isabella gasped.
Standing in front of her was a man. Not just any man.
Him.
The one from the hospital. The dark-eyed stranger with a face carved like a statue and a presence that stole the air from the room.
Azrael.
His black coat billowed slightly from his movement, and beneath it, his sculpted chest rose and fell with slow, controlled rage. His hands were balled into fists, veins taut, jaw clenched.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with something darker.
Isabella nodded mutely, eyes wide.
The man groaned on the floor, trying to get up. Azrael moved with terrifying grace, stepping over to him and crouching down.
"I should break your spine for touching her," he said softly, but the threat in his tone was chilling. "But I won't. Because she's watching."
He leaned closer. "If I ever see you again—if you so much as breathe in her direction—I'll make sure you stop breathing entirely."
The man whimpered.
Azrael stood up, walked back to Isabella, and gently took her arm.
"Let's go."
She didn't argue.
Back through the crowd they moved, unnoticed by most. Outside, the night air was cool against her skin. Her heart was still racing.
He stopped near the curb, turned to face her.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
"I didn't plan to—Emily…"
"I know."
His eyes searched hers. Dark, unreadable, ancient.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He nodded once. "Go home. Don't look back."
And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the street, as if the night itself swallowed him whole.
Isabella stood there for a long moment, clutching her arms, heart pounding in her ears.
She didn't know what he was.
But she knew this—Azrael was no ordinary man.
And something inside her had just shifted forever.
---