Chapter 1
2034words
The fierce wind whipped through my hair as tears blurred my vision.
He had just told me he wasn't going to the hardware store—he was going to kill or be killed.
And it all began with that misunderstanding in the ER three days earlier.
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"Nasal bone fracture, multiple soft tissue contusions, possible minor fracture of the right zygomatic bone. Need imaging to confirm."
I rapidly documented in the electronic medical record while instructing the nurse beside me without looking up. "Start with basic wound debridement and prep for local anesthesia."
The young man on the gurney looked barely eighteen, his face smeared with blood and tears, sobbing as if the whole world had wronged him.
"They hit me with guns... beat me up... just 'cause I bumped into them..."
He mumbled through his tears, playing the perfect innocent victim.
I examined his injuries, which looked more like the result of precise restraint than a random beating.
"Where are these people he's talking about?" I asked the nurse, my finger circling areas on the screen that needed X-rays.
Just then, the ER's automatic doors slid open, and two men walked in.
The man in front was tall, with the kind of sculpted, powerful physique that only comes from years of intense training. His simple gray T-shirt outlined broad shoulders and solid arms—like Apollo himself had stepped out of Greek mythology and into my ER.
He had brilliant golden hair and eyes so blue they were almost startling.
Those eyes swept across the room before landing squarely on me with unmistakable intensity.
The man behind him was equally tall, with darker skin and a composed expression—a silent sentinel.
Their entrance brought a moment of hush to the bustling ER, as every eye in the room was drawn to them.
"Doctor, we're the ones who brought him in," the blond man said, his voice deep and pleasant with a hint of lazy amusement. "My friend's phone is on him."
I straightened, my cool gaze sliding from his ridiculously handsome face to his companion.
"So you're the 'good Samaritans' who pointed a gun at him and beat him to a pulp?"
My tone could have frozen water.
As a trauma surgeon, I've seen too much violence, and I despise it above all else.
The man arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing in those blue eyes.
He took two steps forward, and I caught his scent—something masculine mixed with sunshine and clean soap.
"First of all, it was a replica gun—we were playing cops and robbers with some kids. Second, he stole my friend's phone, and we were simply 'retrieving' lost property."
"As for his injuries," he shrugged, lips curving into a nonchalant smile, "he fell while running, and we were even decent enough to bring him in for treatment."
"So you're saying this is all just a misunderstanding?"
I sneered, not buying his story for a second.
I'd seen this street thug playbook before—first play the victim, then shift blame.
And this guy—too handsome, too confident—looked exactly like those entitled Wall Street bros who tear through Manhattan in their sports cars.
"You can call me Leo."
He completely ignored my hostility, studying me with interest, his gaze sliding from my eyes to my lips with undisguised interest.
"And you, beautiful doctor?"
His companion, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat—a subtle reminder to mind the situation.
Only then did Leo pull back, though the interest in his eyes remained undiminished.
"Dr. Sterling," I answered coldly. "You'd better stay right where you are until the police arrive."
I gestured for the nurse to call the police while I turned my back to examine the young thief, deliberately showing my disdain.
A tense atmosphere hung in the air.
But I could feel that burning gaze never leaving my back.
"Mark, call Eva," Leo's voice came again, this time with less teasing and more command.
His companion nodded, pulled out his phone, and dialed.
"Valkyrie, it's Hades... Yeah, we're at Presbyterian, got a situation... Apollo needs you to verify his identity... Right, I'll put the officer on."
I frowned inwardly.
What's with the weird codenames? Military wannabes?
Soon, two police officers arrived.
Leo, however, looked completely at ease, even winking at me flirtatiously.
He calmly explained the situation to the police and asked them to check surveillance footage near Times Square.
While waiting, Mark handed his phone to one of the officers.
I caught snippets of a crisp, authoritative female voice on the other end, rattling off numbers and authorization codes.
The officer's expression instantly changed. He snapped to attention, actually saluting the phone. "Yes, Captain! Understood!"
After hanging up, the officers' attitudes did a complete 180, suddenly treating Leo and Mark with something close to reverence.
They quickly verified Leo's story through the surveillance footage.
The kid was indeed a thief, and his injuries were from falling while trying to escape.
As the truth emerged, embarrassment washed over me, my face burning.
"Seems there's been a misunderstanding, Dr. Sterling." Leo approached me, that infuriating smirk back on his face. "To make up for it, perhaps you should invite me for coffee?" He was actually turning the tables on me. I took a deep breath, reminding myself to stay professional. "I apologize for misjudging you. But I'm working right now."
"That's fine, I can wait." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with a leisurely gaze that seemed to say "you can't escape." His friend Mark had already retrieved his phone and was quietly speaking to "Valkyrie," his expression softer than before. I suddenly realized these two were far more complex than I'd initially thought.
"Actually, doctor, I do need your help," Leo said, suddenly serious.
"Few months back I got injured during a 'job,' and my right shoulder's been giving me trouble. Since we're here anyway, mind taking a look?"
He pointed to his right shoulder, his expression sincere.
This was something I couldn't refuse.
As a doctor, I couldn't turn away a potential patient.
"Follow me."
I reluctantly led him to my private exam room.
Closing the door shut out the ER noise, leaving just the two of us in the confined space.
Without hesitation, he pulled off his T-shirt, revealing his muscular torso.
His bronze skin was marked with scars of various sizes, old and new crisscrossing like a roadmap of survival.
Below his right shoulder, an unmistakable gunshot scar stood out.
I pulled on gloves and gently pressed my fingers against his shoulder muscles.
The muscle was hard as iron, and heat from his skin penetrated the thin latex, warming my fingertips.
My breathing hitched involuntarily.
I forced myself to focus, professionally examining his joints and muscle tissue.
"The ligaments show signs of old injury. Is your range of motion limited?"
"Sometimes." His voice was right by my ear, his warm breath brushing my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.
I could smell him more clearly now—his distinct scent, an intoxicating masculine musk.
"You might need a more detailed MRI."
I stepped back, creating distance between us.
"Maybe what I need more is your phone number, Dr. Sterling."
He pulled his shirt back on, those blue eyes locked on mine.
"Let's call it... a follow-up appointment?"
He waved his phone, his smile direct and unabashed.
I hesitated for a moment before reciting my number.
I wasn't sure if I was acting out of professional responsibility or if I was drawn to that dangerous yet captivating quality about him.
Our first date was set for three days later at a small pub below my apartment.
He wore a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing his collarbone—more sophisticated than his hospital appearance.
We talked about everything—from my medical research to what he called his "world travels," clearly embellished.
He was witty and well-informed, effortlessly keeping up with any topic I introduced.
I had to admit, I was falling for him.
Just as the atmosphere grew intimate, his hand about to cover mine, his phone vibrated once.
He glanced at the screen, and his smile instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, focused expression I'd never seen before.
"Sorry, Chloe," he stood with a tone that brooked no argument, "I have to go. It's urgent."
"What's so urgent?" I asked, stunned and disappointed by the sudden interruption.
"A trip to the hardware store."
He dropped this bizarre excuse, planted a hasty kiss on my cheek, then disappeared into the night without looking back.
I sat there alone, staring at his unfinished whiskey, feeling like an idiot.
What "hardware store"?
What hardware store is open at midnight?
It was clearly a lie—a lazy, almost insulting one.
He disappeared for an entire week without a trace.
Just as I'd decided to block him and write it off as a bad fling, he reappeared with a massive bouquet of white roses, standing outside my building with an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry about the 'hardware store' that night," he said. "May I have the honor of taking you to a movie? To make it up to you."
I looked into those sincere blue eyes, and all my anger and determination crumbled instantly.
I simply couldn't stay mad at him.
For our second date, we saw a pretentious art film.
In the darkness of the theater, he held my hand, our fingers tightly intertwined.
His palm was dry and warm, with thin calluses—that rough texture giving me an inexplicable sense of security.
I leaned against his shoulder, listening to his steady heartbeat, experiencing for the first time how peaceful my world could be.
But this tranquility was shattered by the vibration of his phone.
He checked his phone, his expression darkening again.
He didn't mention the "hardware store" this time. He just whispered: "Come with me."
His tone left no room for argument.
We silently left the theater and got into his car.
He didn't speak, just floored the gas pedal as the car tore through New York's late-night streets.
Looking at his tense profile, unease welled up inside me.
"Leo, where are we going?" I couldn't help asking.
"Your hospital." He spat out the words, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "Go to the rooftop."
His command stunned me.
Why the hospital rooftop?
There was nothing there except a helicopter landing pad.
My heart began to race, an ominous feeling settling over me.
When we rushed onto the hospital roof, the deafening roar and powerful downdraft nearly knocked me off my feet.
A completely black military helicopter—a Black Hawk—hovered above the landing pad.
The wild wind whipped my hair across my face as I squinted to see clearly.
The cabin door was open, and several fully armed soldiers wearing night vision goggles waved urgently.
Leo pulled me toward the helicopter, leaned close to my ear and shouted:
"Chloe, this is my job! I don't go to hardware stores—I go to kill people, or get killed!"
"For this country, I do things you could never understand or approve of!"
His blue eyes blazed in the darkness, filled with pain and resolve I couldn't comprehend.
He embraced me fiercely—the most desperate embrace I'd ever felt.
"You're a good doctor, Chloe. You should be saving lives, not loving someone whose hands are covered in blood."
After saying this, he released me, turned resolutely, and boarded the helicopter as his comrades urged him on.
The Black Hawk's rotors whipped up a fierce windstorm as it rapidly ascended, disappearing into the night sky over New York.
I stood alone on the empty rooftop, chilled to the bone.
The night wind dried the tears on my face and scattered the last glimmer of fantasy that had just ignited in my heart.
I understood then.
What separated us wasn't the distance between New York and the Middle East, but two fundamentally different callings.
He was the nation's blade, while I was the hand that saved lives.
From the very beginning, we were destined to stand at opposite ends of the moral spectrum.
I turned and slowly walked away from the rooftop.
Never looking back.
