Episode 5

I still couldn't sleep.

Not because I couldn't. But because I didn't want to.

I had the feeling—rather, the certainty—that if I closed my eyes, I would lose control of something. Of myself. Of everything.

I dressed in the same clean surgical clothes that someone had left on the bed. A tray with cold food remained untouched on the table. I wasn't hungry. Just a pang of anxiety in my stomach. That was enough to keep me on my feet.

I didn't know if it was day or night. The windows were covered by thick blackout curtains, and the clock in the room seemed to have stopped a long time ago.

I barely heard the soft knock on the door, I jumped to my feet. It was Clara.

"He's moved," she said in a low voice. "He's waking up."

I followed her through the silent hallways of the house. In the back, in a room guarded by two men who barely looked at me, was the patient's room. His room.

The door closed behind me.

He was there, in a large bed, covered up to his abdomen. No tubes. No assisted breathing machine. Just an IV connected to his right arm, a heart monitor, and a small portable oxygen unit that barely murmured in the corner.

His face was pale, but he no longer looked so serious. He had a defined jawline, a neglected beard, chapped lips. And yet, he seemed made of something else… something dense, powerful, and immovable.

His eyelids slowly opened, and for a few seconds, he seemed lost.

I approached without saying a word.

I saw him frown. His eyes, a hazel color, almost green, landed on me. Slowly.

"Where…?" he tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse.

"You're home. You were hit by four bullets, three of them serious. I had to operate on you."

He blinked.

He remained silent, as if processing it, and then he looked at me more attentively.

"Are you… my doctor?"

I nodded.

"Dr. Alejandra Rivas."

A shadow of a smile, barely a gesture at the corner of his lips.

"You don't look like one."

"You don't look like someone who survived four shots either," I replied, in a neutral tone.

There was a long pause. His breathing was slow but strong.

An old scar on his right eyebrow seemed to accentuate with each movement.

"I'm alive."

"For now. Although your mother seems to have quite rigorous plans if you don't continue to be."

His eyes narrowed, as if searching for some hidden nuance in my voice.

"Were you forced?"

"To save you?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Not so much to save you, but to stay, yes."

He looked away at the ceiling, and a muscle in his neck tensed.

"She's like that."

"Your mother?"

"Maria Reginald knows no limits. She never needed them."

I didn't know if that was a warning or an apology.

Silence settled between us like an invisible wall.

"I'm going to examine you," I finally said, taking out the stethoscope I had brought with me. I approached the side of the bed. "Don't talk much. And don't try to move. Your organs aren't ready for another surprise."

He closed his eyes and felt barely.

I put the stethoscope on his chest. His heart rate was regular. Strong and alive.

The most comforting sound I had heard in hours.

"You're lucky," I murmured, more to myself than to him.

"Do you think so?"

His voice took me by surprise. Not because of the content… but because of the tone. As if he were speaking from an abyss, or from a summit that I couldn't reach.

"Most people wounded like you don't even make it to surgery. And if they do, they don't wake up lucid."

"Maybe it would have been better not to wake up," he said calmly.

I looked at him. I didn't know what to answer.

"I don't see you as someone who gives up easily," I added subtly, as I checked his wounds.

"I don't give up. I just evaluate… alternatives."

I took a step back. He was more awake than he wanted to admit.

"I'm going to monitor your progress. You need antibiotics every eight hours, a liquid diet, and no stress."

"Are you included in that last one?"

I looked at him. It wasn't exactly a smile… but almost.

"I'll let you rest. I'll be back later," I said, turning around.

Just as I was about to leave, his voice stopped me.

"Alejandra…"

I didn't like how my name sounded in his mouth. Too… personal.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for saving me. Even if you didn't do it willingly."

"I didn't do it for you," I replied, without turning around. "I did it for myself. Because I'm a doctor and because not only your life was at stake, but the lives of three other people."

Silence.

"Then," he said, his voice firmer, "maybe I do like you."

I closed the door behind me without answering and leaned against it, closing my eyes.

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