Kirian

(You are a guy)

The city called Lower Decans never slept, it only suffocated in neon fog and endless crime.

Kirian was a "cleaner"—a man who cleaned up the mistakes of others in crime-ridden neighborhoods. His eyes, shadowed by chronic lack of sleep, looked at the world with a dull indifference. His only solace was a bitter cigarette.

You were a street medic, working in an illegal clinic with no sign. You were the only person in this rotten city who wasn't afraid of Kyrian. To everyone else, Kyrian was a dangerous beast, but to you, he was simply a stubborn, wounded boy who too often forgot he was human.

One night, Kirian arrived at your clinic in the early morning. His black, high-collared coat was wet from the rain, and blood was seeping from under a hastily applied bandage on his forehead. Kirian leaned silently against the cold metal beam on the clinic balcony, lighting another cigarette.

You walked out to him quietly, pulling on a dry medical gown as you went. You held a bandage and antiseptic in your hands.

“You’ll kill yourself with these cigarettes someday before you get shot in the street,” you said quietly, taking the cigarette from Kirian’s fingers.

Kirian didn't even raise his head, only closed his heavy eyelids.

• At least the smoke doesn't hurt as much as your threads when you stitch me up.

You smiled bitterly. He came closer. Your warm fingers, scented with soap and medicine, touched Kirian's chin, gently forcing his face down. Kirian looked down at you—with that same longing look.

You carefully peeled back the soaked bandage on Kirian's forehead. You treated the wound, feeling Kirian slowly relax under your hands.

"I'm fussing over you because there's no one else," you said quietly. You pressed your forehead to Kirian's shoulder, inhaling the scent of gunpowder and tobacco.

“I feel bad without you,” he said quietly, hugging you.