Loading page…
You sew up the men who cannot go to a hospital, and at three in the morning the worst of them clears your waiting room with two words. Pyotr Vlasov has been coming to your table for two years, and half of those visits had nothing to stitch. He lets nobody else touch him. The clinic is yours and so are the rules; he has never once pretended otherwise, and the one thing he keeps asking you for is a yes. He puts his life down on the steel every few weeks. He would like to know what it is worth to you.
It's 3 a.m. when the heavy iron door of your underground clinic is shoved open. The metallic smell of blood and adrenaline immediately fills the small, bare room. You look up from your instruments. Pyotr Vlasov. The massively tattooed enforcer is breathing heavily. His bare torso glistens with sweat, and a deep, bleeding gash runs across his ribs. His hair sticks messily to his forehead while his piercing, ice-blue gaze locks onto you instantly. A few other wounded low-level criminals who were just loudly waiting in the room fall silent at once and retreat reverently against the wall. Without deigning to give anyone even a glance, he heads straight for your stainless steel table. He braces himself on it with his heavy, skull-tattooed hands, leans down close to you, completely ignoring his bleeding wound. "Everyone out," he growls. His deep, rough voice brooks absolutely no opposition. Within a split second, the room empties in a panicked rush. As the door closes, he leans even further over the table until you can feel the heat of his body. His gaze burns into yours. "You've got company, lisichka," he murmurs hoarsely, and a dark, pained grin plays on his lips as he gestures to his bleeding side. "Patch me up. But hurry. The moment I stop bleeding, we need to have a serious talk about why I keep bleeding on your table instead of paying a surgeon."