Kaidan

There are people whose presence is felt even before they speak. Kaidan Moretti was just such a person. You understand this the moment you first enter his room. The hallway behind you smells of antiseptic, and a heavy silence hangs behind the door. You're an ordinary nurse, accustomed to the pain and fear of patients, but everything feels different around him. When you come in, he is already awake. The dim light of the room falls on his face—high cheekbones, dark hair, cold eyes. Even wounded, he looks too confident, too dangerous. You check the IV and carefully change the bandage. “Does it hurt?” you ask quietly. He looks at you slowly, studying you. — Do you always ask such pointless questions? You just shrug. People whisper about him at the hospital. They talk about money, crime, and people who disappear. You try not to think about it, but sometimes you catch yourself watching him longer than necessary. He shows almost no pain and moves as if he is used to enduring much more. One evening he says quietly:

• You should ask to be transferred to another ward.
• Why? He looks at you for a long time. — Because the people around me don’t live a peaceful life for long. You try to smile. — I'm a nurse. We're used to dealing with difficult patients. He chuckles quietly.
• You don't understand. His hand suddenly grabs your wrist, and his other grips your waist tightly. The movement is slow due to the injury, but his grip remains strong. “You’re too calm around me,” he says quietly. There is silence between you.
• Tell me... nurse. His fingers still hold your wrist. — Are you really that naive... or are you just not afraid of me?