Halle sat on the edge of her bed, knees drawn to her chest, watching the man on her worn couch. The only light in the tiny room came from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, casting his face in an eerie pallor. Every shallow breath he took was a tiny agony for her. Her mind, usually a chaotic whirlwind of diner orders and overdue bills, was now consumed by a singular, terrifying thought:
What if he died right here? The image flashed her mind. The police wouldn't believe her story. They would see a poor girl, desperate for a better life which she seized by killing a wealthy man. And what if he was involved in something dangerous, the kind of trouble that could spill over and engulf her, her neighbours, and everyone in the building?
Maybe the people who shot him were still out there, looking. Bringing him here might have painted a target on her back. And what if he was some kind of a criminal himself? A gangster hiding from his own enemies, using her naivety as a shield? The possibilities, each more terrifying than the last clawed her peace. But then, a stubborn counter-argument formed: she couldn't have just left him bleeding in the street. Her helping heart, often a burden, had simply refused to stand by.
Her stomach twisted. Now she understood what people meant when they said she had too soft a heart. This wasn't kindness—it was recklessness wrapped in pity.
It was past midnight, and sleep was a distant fantasy. She kept staring, as if her eyes alone could keep him alive.
As minutes passed by, the battle between her fear and her conscience raged, slowly losing ground to the relentless tide of exhaustion. The late hour, the frantic energy of the diner, the adrenaline of the past hour – it all coalesced into a heavy blanket of fatigue. Her eyelids grew heavy, her vision blurred, and before she knew it, the world dissolved into a much-needed oblivion.
The instant Halle's breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, the man on the couch opened his eyes. They were a piercing, unblinking black, reflecting the faint light from the window with an almost unnatural intensity. He lay still for a moment, listening to the soft, even cadence of her heartbeat, a stark contrast to the frantic thrumming he had detected earlier when she was awake and wary.
Slowly and deliberately, he pushed himself up. There was no wince, no grunt of pain. His movements were fluid, effortless. He reached for the crude bandage the girl had fashioned, unwrapping the strips of torn sheet with a practiced ease. What was revealed beneath sent no ripple of discomfort through him. The angry, gaping wound that had oozed blood just moments before was gone. His skin was smooth, unblemished, as if it had never been pierced, as if a bullet had never ripped through flesh.
He looked at the young woman, so vulnerable in her sleep, her face softened by unconsciousness. Her act of kindness, borne of a genuine if exasperated impulse, was something he rarely encountered. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he pulled out a small wad of bills. It wasn't much, a meager sum compared to the digital currency that usually facilitated his transactions. Cash was an inconvenient relic in his world. He walked silently to her bedside table, placing the money carefully beside her alarm clock. On top of the bills, he laid a small, folded note, that he had written.
He lingered for a moment, a fleeting shadow in the dimly lit room, then turned and glided out the door. The night swallowed him whole as he retraced his steps to where his expensive machine was, a silent sentinel on the deserted street. He settled into the driver's seat, a man unburdened by pain or injury, and with a soft purr of the engine, the vehicle slipped away into the darkness.
The black SUV moved smoothly onto the empty highway. Its strong engine made a soft, happy sound in the quiet night air. Raphael felt the cool air on his face. He wasn't thinking about the easy drive, though. His mind went back to the small, dim room, to the young woman sleeping soundly on her narrow bed.
Her face, soft in the dim light as she slept, flashed in his mind. He didn't know her , but she felt oddly familiar, like a faint memory from a place he couldn't quite recall. Had he seen her before? Where? His life was about careful meetings, about people he knew because they were useful or paused as a threat. But her face didn't fit neatly into those boxes. It just gave him a strange feeling of having met her before, a forgotten moment. This thought didn't last long, though. He rarely let himself think about such things.
As minutes slowlypassed by, the highway ended, and his car entered a maze of private roads. These roads were well-kept and lined with neat bushes. This was a completely different world, a place of quiet luxury where huge houses sat hidden in the dark of night. His vehicle turned onto a long, curving driveway, its tires crunching softly on the stones, then stopped quietly in front of a giant house that made the other big houses nearby look small.
He got out. The cool night air didn't completely get rid of the faint, metal smell of blood still on his shirt, a stark reminder of his unexpected day. The big wooden doors opened before he could even reach them. A young lady stood in the wide entryway. She was very beautiful, probably in her early twenties, with long, shiny dark hair and eyes that sparkled even in the dim light. Her silk robe, the color of moonlight, shimmered as she moved.
" What happened to you? What happened to your shirt?" Her voice was soft, but it held a sharp worry as her eyes landed on the red stains. "What's with all the blood?"
He looked at her, his face showing no feeling, a look he knew well and without any explanation, he said, "I'm going to take a shower," his voice was flat, showing no emotion, and just like that, he walked past her, the smell of her expensive perfume fading quickly as he began to go up the grand stairs, leaving her to stare at the disappearing proof of his busy night.