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The audience roars their approval. The sound of their applause, the echoing chant of my name, should be intoxicating. But my mind isn’t focused on the glory of the win, it’s on Samuil. Without even collecting my prize, I dart out of the ring and make my way to the makeshift medical bay.
I find him seated on a bench, pressing a gauze pad to his side where blood has soaked through his shirt. He’s pale, lips a shade lighter than they should be, and for a moment, my heart aches with fear.
He looks up, his usually fierce gaze softened with pain, but still alert. “You alright?” he asks, his voice rough.
“I’m fine, thanks to you,” I reply, biting my lip as I survey the damage. "But... God, Samuil, you’re bleeding so much."
“It was worth it to save you,” he states simply.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I change the subject. "I won the match, though you probably guessed that."
“I heard the roar of the crowd and the chanting of your name.” He chuckles, then winces. “All the same, I never had a doubt."
I hold his hand, and an instant comfort comes over me. The moment is tender, a brief respite in the midst of chaos. Despite the circumstances, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
The blood is soaking through the cloth and I’m growing more concerned by the moment, but Samuil's resistance is firm. "No hospitals," he growls as he sees the worry in my eyes, his grip on the cloth weakening.
I feel panic well up. “You’re losing too much blood! We don’t have a choice.”
Samuil pulls out his phone with his free hand, shoving it into mine. It's already dialing. A familiar voice picks up on the other end. “Roman.”
"Samuil's hurt," I blurt, voice trembling. "Knife wound. He won't go to a hospital. What do I do?"
Roman, unflappable as ever, answers without a hint of fear. “Meet me at the south entrance. Wait there.”
Without hesitation, I help Samuil to his feet, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. The adrenaline pumping through my veins gives me strength as I guide him toward the exit Roman specified.
The chill of the evening is a sharp contrast to the warm, humid atmosphere of the underground fight ring. As soon as we get to the meet spot, a sleek black car with tinted windows pulls up—Roman’s signature ride. The back door opens, revealing a striking woman, perhaps in her late forties or early fifties. She’s dressed immaculately, hair pulled back in a neat bun, yet there's an undeniable toughness about her, the kind of aura that speaks of experience.
"I’m Nat," she says, eyes flicking between me and the wounded Samuil. Without waiting for a response, she continues, "Both of you, get in."
Chapter 17
Samuil
The car speeds down the road, every jolt, every bump, every pothole, sending sharp pangs of pain throughout my body. I focus on my breathing, in and out, to steady myself and not give in to the pain.
Nat is a skilled doctor, not a novice, and she examines my injuries with clinical precision. She’s seen and treated all sorts of wounds. Her hands are gentle but firm, pressing and assessing the extent of the damage. Each touch sends a shock through me.
"Easy, big guy," she remarks, noting my grimace.
"I've been through worse," I bite out, trying to put on a brave face. But the reality is, I know this time it's bad. Real bad.
She pokes at a particularly tender spot, and I can't suppress the grunt that escapes my lips.
"Don’t be such a baby," she teases, her eyes twinkling playfully.
Chuckling, I retort, "Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much."
Her chuckle joins mine, the sound easing the seriousness of the situation. As we continue driving, the landscape begins to change to industrial and abandoned buildings, forgotten by most of the city.
We finally pull up to a large, nondescript warehouse. With its faded paint and old brickwork, it’s the kind of place one would easily overlook, making it perfect for covert operations. As we exit the car, I take a moment to stretch, grimacing at the pain it causes.
Ana, always observant, remarks, "You wouldn’t think it from the outside, but this place is actually—"
"State-of-the-art," Nat finishes, opening the door to the warehouse. And she wasn't exaggerating. Inside, it's like stepping into another world. The interior is pristine—white walls, clean floors, and modern equipment. It's a makeshift surgery center and urgent care clinic, but one that could rival any top-tier facility.
"This is impressive," I admit, my eyes scanning the room, taking in the neatly organized instruments and top-of-the-line tech.
