Chapter 1
She believed every life was worth saving.
He believed every debt had to be repaid.
Neither of them expected one gunshot wound to rewrite both oftheir lives.
Chapter One
“Wherever the art of medicine isloved, there is also a love of humanity.” — Hippocrates
There were only three things Catherinehated more than anatomy practicals.
Cold coffee.
Night duty.
And the fact that the two alwaysseemed to come together.
She rubbed her eyes for what felt likethe hundredth time that night, trying to focus on the pages of her anatomyatlas spread open across the nurses’ station.
“Branches of the abdominal aorta…”
She read the same paragraph again.
And again.
Nothing.
The words had officially stoppedmaking sense.
“You’ve been on that page for fifteenminutes.”
Catherine looked up just enough toglare at the resident doctor seated across from her.
“I’m studying.”
“No.”
He didn’t even look away from thepatient files in his hands.
“You’re staring.”
She sighed dramatically.
“I came to medical school to savelives.”
“And?”
“I didn’t know I’d have to memorizeevery artery in the human body before they’d let me.”
The resident laughed quietly.
“You’ll survive.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
She reached for her coffee.
Cold.
Of course it was cold.
Her shift was finally ending.
Another ten minutes and she’d bewalking back to her hostel, collapsing onto her bed, and praying she’dmagically absorb anatomy through osmosis before her practical the next morning.
The automatic doors burst open.
“Doctor!”
A man’s panicked voice echoed throughthe clinic.
“We need help!”
Two men rushed inside carrying someonebetween them.
Blood dripped steadily onto the whitetiled floor.
The clinic instantly erupted intomotion.
“Get a stretcher!”
“Call surgery.”
“BP?”
“Pressure’s dropping.”
Catherine was already pulling on apair of gloves.
Her exhaustion disappeared the secondshe saw the blood.
Training took over.
The patient was laid onto theexamination bed.
The resident moved to assess him whileCatherine cut away the blood-soaked fabric around the wound.
“Gunshot wound,” one of the men said.
“Abdomen.”
The resident nodded.
“Gauze.”
She handed it over immediately.
“Saline.”
Already there.
“Pressure.”
She pressed firmly against the woundas instructed.
Only then did she properly look at thepatient.
For a brief, embarrassing second…
She forgot how to breathe.
He looked less like someone bleedingout and more like someone who had stepped out of a sculpture.
Tall.
Easily over six feet.
Dark hair, slightly dishevelled,falling across his forehead.
A jaw sharp enough to look carvedrather than inherited.
His features were striking—not in asoft, effortless way, but in the kind of way that made people instinctivelymove out of his path.
Even unconscious, there was somethingintimidating about him.
As though danger had simply decided towear a handsome face.
Ridiculous.
Some people were offensivelyattractive.
Catherine.
Her own thoughts immediately scoldedher.
He’s been shot.
You took the Hippocratic Oath.
You’re here to save his life—notadmire his face.
She mentally rolled her eyes atherself and focused on the wound.
“Bleeding’s slowing,” she said.
The resident nodded.
“Good.”
As she reached for fresh gauze, alarge hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist.
Her breath caught.
His eyes opened.
Grey.
Cold.
Alert.
Far too alert for someone who had lostthat much blood.
For a long moment…
He simply looked at her.
Not confused.
Not frightened.
Just…
Watching.
As if memorising her face.
Then his grip loosened.
His eyes closed once more.
“Surgery’s here.”
The room filled with movement as thesurgical team rushed in, taking over.
Catherine stepped back, pulling offher gloves.
“Nice work,” the resident said.
She nodded absentmindedly.
Somehow…
She couldn’t stop thinking about thoseeyes.
A week later…
Life had returned to normal.
Or at least…
As normal as medical school allowed.
Anatomy practicals.
Physiology lectures.
Assignments.
Coffee.
Regret.
Repeat.
The man with the gunshot wound hadbecome nothing more than an interesting memory.
She doubted she’d ever see him again.
Which was perfectly fine with her.
She was crossing the main walkwayafter lectures, anatomy atlas tucked beneath one arm, when she saw him.
Her footsteps slowed.
No…
It couldn’t be.
Same height.
Same dark hair.
Same face.
Same impossible presence.
He was walking across campus wearing afitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He looked perfectly healthy.
As though he’d never been shot.
“What a coincidence…” she murmured toherself.
Maybe he had a sibling here.
A girlfriend.
A friend.
Whatever the reason…
It wasn’t her business.
She quickly looked away.
Don’t make eye contact.
He probably doesn’t even remember you.
Turning down a quieter pathway, shekept walking until she reached the corner of the library.
She hesitated.
Then cautiously peeked around theedge.
He had disappeared.
Good.
She waited another few seconds just tobe safe before stepping out.
“Are you hiding from someone?”
The deep voice behind her nearly madeher jump out of her skin.
She froze.
Slowly…
She turned around.
He stood only a few feet away, oneshoulder resting lazily against the brick wall, his hands tucked into thepockets of his black coat.
He looked exactly as she remembered.
“N-no.”
His expression remained unreadable.
“…You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am not.”
“You looked around three times beforestepping out.”
“I was…” she searched desperately foran excuse.
“…making sure someone had left.”
One corner of his mouth lifted ever soslightly.
“So…”
He tilted his head.
“You were hiding.”
“…”
“…”
“…Maybe.”
Silence settled between them.
Then he pushed himself away from thewall.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Catherine blinked.
“For… me?”
“Da.”
His voice was calm.
Unhurried.
As though this conversation had beeninevitable.
“Why?”
“You treated my wound.”
“That was my job.”
“No.”
His eyes held hers.
“That was a choice.”
“There were other doctors.”
“There were.”
“But you stayed.”
Her brows knitted together.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.”
He took one measured step closer.
Close enough for her to notice thefaint scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
“One more thing.”
She swallowed.
“…What?”
For the first time since she’d methim…
He smiled.
It was small.
Almost imperceptible.
Yet somehow it changed his entireface.
“Your name.”
“Catherine.”
He repeated it once, thoughtfully, asthough testing the sound.
Then he shook his head.
“No.”
She frowned.
“What do you mean, no?”
A glint of amusement flickered in hissteel-grey eyes.
“Katya.”
“My name is Catherine.”
“Not to me.”
He held her gaze for one heartbeatlonger before walking past her as though he’d simply commented on the weather.
Catherine remained rooted to the spot.
“…Excuse me?”
He didn’t look back.
Only lifted one hand in acknowledgmentas he continued down the path.
“do vstrechi, Katya.”
She stared after him.
“…What on earth just happened?”
