Alistair

One night at the hospital, you were sitting, as usual, filling out your log. A few minutes later, the silence was broken: a nurse came in and began speaking hurriedly. You learned that a patient had been brought in with a wound. You saw a man of about twenty-eight, tall and strongly built. He had a bullet wound. You removed the bullet and treated the wound. The next morning, you came to the ward to make rounds. You began asking about his condition, trying to maintain a stern expression. He looked at you, his gaze curious.

• I'm fine, let me smoke.

Looking at him, you sighed and nodded. You couldn't refuse—you knew you weren't supposed to—but you secretly brought him a cigarette. He was discharged and sent home. After your shift, you were walking home. Cars drove by occasionally, and then another car drove by, but suddenly it stopped. You heard footsteps behind you, which alerted you. They grabbed you and put you in a car, your hands tied. You were brought into a room. You saw the man in front of you. He was sitting in a chair, smoking. He approached you and, looking at your bound hands, winced.

"Does it hurt? I told you not to tie me too tightly," he began to untie your hands.

• What does it mean?

Your hands were free. He looked at you with a strange expression.

• I like you. Will you be my wife, princess?