But my feet move forward anyway, slow and cautious, my bag strap clenched in my fist until my knuckles ache. The leather digs into my palm, and I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. My other hand still grips my phone, the screen dimming now, threatening to go dark. I round the dumpster, the smell of rotting garbage and rusted metal hitting me first. Then I see him.
He's half on his side, and half propped against the brick wall, one long leg stretched out awkwardly, the other bent beneath him at an unnatural angle. Blood spreads beneath his torso, dark and dense against the concrete, already pooling in the shallow divots and cracks. It glistens under the security lights, more black than red. His suit jacket lies open, the fabric torn along one side, revealing a white dress shirt soaked through with crimson. Thecut is deep. I can see that in one glance, the way his muscles strain when he breathes, and his hand presses hard against his abdomen like he's trying to hold himself together. His fingers are stained dark, blood welling between them with each exhale.
He's tall. Even in his collapsed state, he takes up space. His broad shoulders strain the ruined lines of his jacket, his chest rising unevenly beneath the soaked shirt. His hair is dark, longer on top, damp with sweat, and plastered to his forehead. His face is pale beneath a stubble shadow, his jaw clenched so tight it trembles. A faint scar cuts along his jawline, pale and old against the darker stubble. His lips are parted, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
And his eyes… they lock onto mine with startling focus. Dark brown, ringed with green, bright with pain and awareness. They’re not glassy or drifting. He sees me. Really sees me. His gaze tracks my face, taking in every detail, and for a suspended moment, neither of us moves.
My training kicks in before thought does. I drop my bag, letting it hit the ground with a dull thud, and kneel beside him. My coat pools around me on the cold concrete, the fabric soaking up moisture and grime. “I'm a doctor,” I tell him, my voice low and even, the cadence automatic. “Can you tell me your name?”
His chest lifts and falls. His breath rattles in his lungs, a wet sound that tells me things I don't want to know yet. His fingers tighten against his side, his knuckles whitening under the blood. When he answers, the sound scrapes out of him rough and thick with a heavy accent.
“No police.”
It isn’t a plea or panic, but authority stripped raw and still intact, an order even now, even like this.
My hand pauses mid-reach, hovering over his wound. I meet his eyes again, searching for signs of confusion or shock-induced delirium. But there's nothing unfocused about his gaze. He knows exactly what he's asking. “You're badly hurt,” I respond, keeping my tone clinical. “You need an ambulance. I need to call?—”
His eyes don’t leave my face, and there's resolve there, even through the pain. “No police.”
An unwelcome shiver slides down my spine. I swallow it back, forcing myself to stay present. “I'm calling for help,” I counter, already unlocking my phone. The screen lights up my face, too bright in the darkness. “We can figure out the rest after?—”
His hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist. The contact jolts through me, my body reacting before my thoughts catch up. His grip is warm, slick with blood, his strength flaring despite the way his body shakes. I can feel his pulse through his fingertips, frantic and uneven. I meet his eyes again, my pulse loud in my ears, the rest of the world falling away.
“Don't,” he urges, his breath stuttering between the words. His jaw tightens, muscles standing out in his neck, and veins visible beneath his pale skin. “Pozhaluysta.”Please.
I look down at our hands, at the blood smearing across my skin, warm and sticky. At the way his fingers tremble despite their hold, the tremor working its way up his arm. He’s fading, and I recognize the signs immediately, skin cooling, breath uneven, that hollow look edging into his eyes as his lids start to droop. Minutes. Maybe less.
I make a choice.
“Alright,” I murmur, sliding my phone into my pocket. The screen goes dark, leaving us in shadow. “But you listen to me.”
His grip loosens, his fingers slipping from my wrist, leaving streaks of blood across my coat sleeve. I shrug out of my scarf, the wool catching on my hair before I yank it free, and press it firmly against his side, right where his hand had been. The fabric turns dark immediately, soaking through. He hisses through clenched teeth, his head tipping back against the wall, exposing the line of his throat. I can see his pulse jumping there, too fast and frantic.
“I need pressure,” I explain, leaning in, bracing my weight over my hands. My palms sink into the wool and the wound beneath. “Deep breaths. In through your nose.”
I shift closer, bracing my knee against his hip and guiding his legs in slightly, keeping him from stretching out flat. I press the scarf deeper into the wound, not just over it, packing and holding, my hands slick with blood.
“Stay with me,” I urge, my voice firm, the tone I use when a patient is slipping. “Look at me.”
His eyes lift back to my face, clearer now. Sweat beads along his temples, his dark hair clinging to his skin in damp strands. A muscle jumps in his jaw, his mouth tightening as he swallows back another sound.
He studies me like he’s committing details to memory, the line of my mouth, the crease between my brows, my eyes, the intensity of it unsettling me even now.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps.
I release a short breath, something close to a laugh but stripped of humor. “I could return the sentiment.”
His fingers drag against the concrete, tendons standing out, nails rasping over rough stone as another wave of pain hits. I lean in, blocking the wind with my body and maintaining constant pressure.
My pulse races, but my thoughts stay clear. I catalogue the damage the way I would in the trauma bay. Deep abdominal wound. Internal bleeding is likely. Blood loss is significant. Pulse thinning beneath my fingers. Skin is cold and slick. Time is collapsing fast.
“Tell me where it hurts,” I instruct, needing him to talk and stay present.
“Everywhere,” he mutters.
“That works,” I reply quietly. “Keep breathing.”
Another twitch at his mouth, faint and fleeting. His eyes never leave me, even as his lids grow heavier.
