Blood and Vows

ill stiff with newness, her hands clasped behind her back to hide the slight tremble. It was her first shift, 7:00 a.m. on February 25, 2025, and the hospital already felt like a battlefield.

gain, catching that gaze still fixed on her. "You're not dying today. What's your name?" He hesitated, his lips parting, then closing. "Lucas," he said finally, the word clipped like he'd debated lying. No last name. She didn't push-half the patients here dodged questions like that. San Vero's streets bred secrets. "Lucas," she repeated, testing it. "You got lucky. Bullet missed your heart by an inch. Any idea who wanted you dead?" His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smirk. "Plenty of people. You pick." She arched a brow, taping the gauze over the entry wound. "Funny guy. Save the stand-up for when you're not leaking." Patel swept in then, his clipboard tucked under one arm, peering over her shoulder. "Nice work, Ricci. Tube's in clean. OR's ready-let's get him upstairs. Bullet's still in there." Gianna stepped back, peeling off her gloves as orderlies wheeled Lucas out. His eyes flicked to her one last time, a flicker of something-curiosity, maybe-before the curtain swished shut behind him. She exhaled, the tension draining from her shoulders, leaving a dull ache in its wake. First patient of the day, and already she'd danced with death. Welcome to San Vero. The rest of the shift blurred-car accident victims, a junkie OD, a kid with a broken arm from a fall no one explained. By 3:00 p.m., her scrubs were speckled with blood and her stomach growled like a caged animal. She ducked into the break room, a closet-sized space with a sagging couch and a coffee machine that spat brown sludge. She poured a cup anyway, grimacing at the burnt taste, and sank onto the couch. Her phone buzzed-another text from Teresa: How's the first day? Don't overdo it. Gianna typed a quick reply: Busy. Surviving. Talk later. She hit send, then leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Lucas's face flashed behind her lids-those eyes, that scar, the way he'd looked at her like he knew something she didn't. She shook it off. Just another patient. She'd seen dozens like him: hard men with harder stories, their lives spilling out in crimson on her table. "Ricci, you alive?" Patel poked his head in, his tone gruff but not unkind. "Trauma three's got a stab wound. You're up." She groaned, hauling herself to her feet. "On it." The stab wound was messy but straightforward-superficial, no major vessels hit. She stitched it up, sent the guy to recovery, and scrubbed out as the clock ticked toward 7:00 p.m. Twelve hours down, her body screaming for rest. She changed into her coat in the locker room, the weight of the day settling into her bones, and stepped into the fading light outside. The hospital parking lot was a maze of dented cars and flickering streetlights, the air thick with exhaust and the faint tang of blood she couldn't shake. She headed toward 12th Street, her apartment a ten-minute walk, when a shadow moved near the E