Elena's POV
The door clicked shut behind him, a soft, final sound that echoed in the too-quiet clinic. Elena stood frozen, her hand still half-raised as if to stop him, or maybe to wave goodbye. She wasn't sure. Through the frosted glass of the door's window, she watched his dark shape a moving shadow against the deeper black of the alley until he dissolved into the gloom.
A full minute passed before she could move.
The adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins for the last two hours abruptly drained away, leaving her hollow, shaky, and cold. She looked down. Her hands were trembling. They were stained a rusty brown under her nails, a smear across her knuckles. His blood. The clean, white tiles of her back room were defaced with a large, shocking red footprint where she'd stood, and a smeared trail leading to the door.
What have I done?
The thought wasn't about the medical care. She'd done that part right. The stitches were clean, the antibiotics appropriate. No, the question was about everything else. She had dragged a member of organized crime into her sanctuary. She had seen the mark of a world that operated in shadows and violence. She had let him go.
And he knew her name. He knew where she worked.
A violent shudder racked her body. She stumbled to the sink and turned on the hot water, scrubbing her hands raw with antiseptic soap until the skin was pink and burning. The water ran red, then pink, then clear. She kept scrubbing.
The clinic, usually a place of comfort, felt alien and violated. The silence was no longer peaceful; it was watchful. Every shadow in the corners seemed deeper. The old cat in the cage yawned, its tiny teeth gleaming in the light, and she jumped.
Get a grip, Elena.
She forced herself into motion. Cleaning was a ritual, a way to restore order. She fetched bleach, mops, and rags. On her knees, she scrubbed the blood from the tiles. The metallic, coppery smell mixed with the sharp tang of the cleaner, creating a nauseating cocktail. Each swipe of the rag felt like she was erasing evidence of a crime. But what was the crime? Helping someone? The wrong someone?
As she worked, her mind replayed the night in frantic snippets. The sound in the alley. The terrifying strength of his grip. The impossible weight of him. The startling, icy gray of his eyes when they focused on her. Not just pain in them, but a chilling intelligence, a constant, calculating assessment. And then, later, something else. A flicker of… gratitude? Confusion? She couldn't decipher it.
And the tattoo. The wolf. It was burned into her memory. The detail was incredible, which made it all the more frightening. That wasn't a prison tattoo or a drunken mistake. That was a commitment. An identity.
She finished cleaning the floor and bundled the ruined, blood-soaked clothes, her cardigan, the cut-up remnants of his expensive garments, into a hazardous waste bag. She tied it tightly, as if sealing a secret inside.
Dawn was breaking properly now, a thin, watery light filtering through the high windows. The city was waking up. Normal people were making coffee, heading to jobs, and thinking about Christmas shopping. Her world had tilted on its axis, and theirs churned on, oblivious.
She checked on Bella, the puppy. The little golden retriever was sleeping peacefully, her breathing even. The normalcy of the animal's slow recovery was an anchor. This was her purpose. Simple, clear healing.
But the image of the man, Nikolai, wouldn't leave her. The way he'd said her name. I won't forget this. Was that a promise or a threat? A man like that wouldn't want to tie up loose ends? She was a loose end. A witness.
Paranoia, cold and slick, began to coil in her stomach. She rushed to the front of the clinic and peered out through the blinds. The street was normal. The Christmas vendor was setting up his stall, blowing on his hands. A few early commuters trudged through the slush. No black cars. No men in suits watching her door.
He's gone. He has his own problems. A knife wound like that doesn't happen in a friendly poker game. He's running from someone worse. He won't come back.
She repeated it like a mantra as she went through the motions of opening the clinic. She turned on the computer, filled the coffee maker, and unlocked the front door. Her body was on autopilot, her mind a thousand miles away, trapped in the alley.
The first appointment of the day was at 9 AM, a routine vaccination for a fat tabby cat. Mrs. Henderson, the owner, chattered happily about her holiday plans. Elena nodded and smiled, her hands performing the familiar task, but she felt disconnected, floating outside her own body. The cheerful conversation about eggnog and caroling felt like it was in a foreign language.
"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Henderson asked, peering at her through thick glasses. "You look pale."
"Just a long night," Elena said, forcing another smile. "Emergency surgery on a puppy. You know how it is."
The woman nodded sympathetically and left, bells on the door jingling. The sound made Elena flinch.
The morning dragged on. Every time the door opened, her heart leapt into her throat. But it was only more pets, more owners. A man with a parrot. A woman with a rabbit. Normal life, insistently, blessedly normal.
By mid-afternoon, exhaustion was pulling at her, heavy and deep. The lack of sleep, the adrenaline crash, the constant, low-grade fear, it was a toxic mix. She decided to close early. She couldn't focus. She needed to go home, to her quiet apartment, and try to forget.
She was in the back, giving Bella one final check, when she heard it. Not the front door. A different sound. A soft, powerful purr of an engine, so quiet and smooth it was almost silent. It was the sound of money and power. It was a sound that didn't belong on her gritty street.
Her blood ran cold. She crept to the front window again, carefully moving the blind with one finger.
A long, sleek, black sedan with dark, impenetrable windows was idling at the mouth of the alley across the street. It was like a panther resting in the shadows. It hadn't been there ten minutes ago.
As she watched, her breath fogging the cold glass, the alley's darkness seemed to shift. A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged, moving slowly but deliberately. Even from this distance, hunched against the cold in his ruined coat, she recognized his gait. Nikolai.
He didn't look left or right. He walked straight to the idling car. The rear door opened from the inside before he even reached it. He paused for one second, his head turning slightly. She couldn't see his face, but she felt a bizarre, impossible certainty that he was looking directly at her clinic. Directly at the window where she hid.
Then he ducked inside. The door closed with a soft, solid thunk. The car, without any headlights flashing or engine revving, glided away from the curb and disappeared into the afternoon traffic, silent and ghostly.
Elena let the blind fall back, her knees weak. The chill she felt had nothing to do with the winter outside. It was the cold realization of scale. That car, that effortless extraction, that aura of invisible control it confirmed every terrified suspicion.
This wasn't just a dangerous man. This was a man with a system. With resources. A man who could vanish from a bloody alley and reappear hours later, collected by a vehicle that cost more than her clinic made in a year.
He was gone. But the world he belonged to wasn't. And for a few hours last night, she had been pulled into its orbit. The memory of his grip on her wrist throbbed anew.
He knew her name. He knew her face. And he knew exactly where to find her.
From her window, Elena sees a sleek black car silently pick him up. She feels a chill of fear.