Elena's POV
The puppy wouldn't stop screaming.
It was a high, panicked sound that cut through the low hum of the clinic's heaters and the distant, tinny blare of Christmas music from the street vendor outside. Elena Petrov pressed a thick towel against the squirming ball of wet golden fur, trying to calm the shivering creature. Her own heart was pounding a ragged rhythm against her ribs. Not from the emergency she handled those daily, but from the noise outside. Jingle Bell Rock. Again.
"Shhh, Bella, it's okay, sweet girl. The scary glitter is all gone," Elena murmured, her voice a forced calm that she didn't feel. The calm was for the puppy, and for the little girl standing two feet away, her hands still covered in red glitter and tears streaking through the sparkles on her cheeks.
"Is she gonna die?" the girl, Lily, whispered, her lower lip trembling.
"No, honey. She's not going to die," Elena said firmly, locking eyes with the mother over the girl's head. The mother's face was pale with worry. The puppy had eaten a fragment of a broken Christmas ornament. Not usually fatal, but it could slice up insides like tiny glass knives. Elena had spent the last forty minutes with careful fingers and a scope, retrieving the pieces. Now, it was about monitoring for shock, for internal bleeding.
Every cheerful chord from the street felt like a needle in her ear. Christmas. The word itself tasted like ashes. Two years. Two years tonight, actually. The phone call had come at 11:37 PM. Her father's voice, so calm it was terrifying, saying there'd been an accident on the icy road back from her aunt's Christmas party. Then the static-filled silence when the line went dead. Then the hospital. Then the quiet.
She pushed the memory down, a practiced move. It was a rock she carried in her stomach, and some days, like today, it felt heavier than others.
"I need to keep her overnight, just to be safe," Elena explained, wrapping the puppy in a warm blanket and settling her into a recovery kennel. Bella whimpered but settled, exhausted. "You can call first thing in the morning. I'll be here."
The mother nodded, murmuring thanks, pulling a wad of cash from her purse. Elena waved it away. "Pay tomorrow, when you pick her up. Just get this one home to bed." She forced a smile for Lily. "You were very brave. Bella is lucky to have you."
After they left, the silence of the clinic rushed in, broken only by the puppy's soft whimpers, the rustle of the old tabby cat in his cage, and that relentless, joyful music. Elena methodically cleaned the exam room. She scrubbed every surface, her movements sharp, almost angry. The glitter was everywhere, catching the light like tiny drops of blood. She hated glitter. She hated tinsel. She hated the forced, shiny happiness of it all.
Her apartment awaited her clean, quiet, and empty. No tree. No lights. Just a couch, a book she couldn't focus on, and the silence that echoed louder than any music.
Finishing up, she fed the overnight boarders: the tabby with kidney issues, the parrot who plucked his feathers when stressed, and the now-sleeping puppy. The routine was a comfort. This was her world. Animals in pain, animals healing. It made sense. Their pain was honest. Their gratitude was real. There were no hidden meanings in a dog's lick or a cat's purr.
She was just about to turn off the last lights when a sharp, solid THUD echoed from the back alley.
She froze, her hand on the light switch.
It wasn't the usual scuffling of raccoons in the dumpster. This was heavier. A deep, dense sound of something or someone hitting the brick wall behind the clinic.
Her heart, which had finally begun to slow, kicked back into a gallop. Probably a drunk, she thought. Or someone dumped a big bag of trash. This part of the city had its share of nighttime troubles. She'd called the cops on a screaming match once, found a homeless man sleeping by her door another time. She always gave him a spare blanket and a granola bar.
Another sound. A low, pained groan. Definitely human.
Fear, cold and slick, coiled in her stomach. Do not go out there. Lock the door. Call 911. Let them handle it.
But another part of her, the part that had just spent hours carefully saving a tiny, glitter-eating life, argued back. What if they're hurt? What if it's an emergency? You're a doctor, sort of. You have supplies.
The war inside her lasted a full minute. The vet won.
She grabbed the heavy, steel flashlight from under the counter, a weapon as much as a light, and crept toward the back door. Her palms were sweaty. The cheerful Christmas melody from down the street felt like a maddening soundtrack to a horror movie.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she unlocked the deadbolt. The sound was too loud in the quiet clinic. She turned the handle and pulled the door open just a crack.
Icy wind, carrying snow and the faint scent of garbage and wet brick, slapped her in the face. The alley was a canyon of darkness, lit only by a single, flickering yellow streetlight at the far end. The dumpsters stood like silent monoliths. Shadows pooled everywhere.
Her eyes scanned, adjusting. Nothing. Maybe she'd imagined.
Then she saw it.
A dark, shapeless mound slumped against the wall, about twenty feet away, half in shadow, half in the sickly light. It was too large for a garbage bag. It had limbs.
A person.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice swallowed by the wind.
No answer. No movement.
Swallowing hard, Elena stepped fully into the alley, the cold biting through her thin scrubs instantly. She clicked on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, shaking slightly in her grip.
It landed on a black leather shoe, polished but now scuffed and wet. Then the cuff of dark, tailored trousers. This wasn't homeless-person clothing. This was expensive.
The beam traveled up, over soaked wool, a long coat. And then she saw the blood.
It wasn't a trickle. It was a spreading pool, vivid and shocking against the dirty white snow, melting it in a growing circle of crimson. It was coming from underneath him.
Her medical brain switched on, shoving the panic aside. Significant blood loss. Hypothermia risk. Unconscious. Immediate action is required.
She rushed forward, her feet slipping. She dropped to her knees beside him, the cold and wet seeping through immediately. Gently, she put a hand on his shoulder to roll him onto his back for airway assessment.
He was impossibly heavy, solid with muscle. As she wrestled with his dead weight, his head lolled back into the light.
Elena's breath hitched.
He was young, maybe mid-thirties, with stark, handsome features that looked carved from marble even in unconsciousness. His skin was deathly pale, his eyebrows dark slashes, his lips parted. Dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and melted snow. He was, objectively, the most strikingly beautiful man she had ever seen. And he was bleeding out in a filthy alley.
Her eyes darted to the wound. Lower left abdomen. The fabric of his coat and sweater was torn and sodden with blood. A stab wound? A gunshot? It was messy, deep.
"Sir? Can you hear me?" She tapped his cheek, her fingers coming away cold. "I'm going to help you."
No response. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Shock.
Acting on pure instinct, she ripped off her own cardigan, leaving herself in a thin t-shirt, and balled it up. She pressed the fabric hard against the gushing wound, applying direct pressure.
He groaned, a deep, pained sound that seemed to come from the center of the earth. His body tensed.
"It's okay," she whispered, more to calm herself. "I've got you. Just hold on."
She needed to get him inside. Now. But he was a giant. Wrapping her arms under his shoulders, she braced her feet and pulled with all her strength. He moved an inch, then two. Her back screamed in protest. This was impossible. Despair began to claw at her.
Just then, his eyes shot open.
They were a startling, clear gray, like a winter sky moments before a storm. They were clouded with agony, but behind the pain was a sharp, terrifying intelligence. They locked onto her face with an intensity that felt physical.
Confusion. Recognition of a threat. Then a wild, predatory alertness.
His hand moved.
It was a blur. Not the weak flail of an injured man, but a precise, lightning-fast strike. His fingers, cold, hard, and impossibly strong, closed around her wrist like an iron manacle, squeezing with bone-creaking force.
She opens the back door and sees a dark shape slumped in the snow.