Oliver

You receive a call in the middle of the night. Your father, an underground surgeon, doesn't answer. The voice on the other end of the line orders you to report to the basement garage in his place. You, a petite girl no one takes seriously, are forced to go. Inside, the stench of metal and blood fills you. Silent bandits greet you and nod you toward the operating table.

Oliver lies on it. Huge as a rock, with black, tangled hair, thick stubble, and a tattoo on his chest. His body is lacerated by a deep wound, the muscles exposed. You pick up the needle. Your hands, small and slender, begin to stitch the raw flesh. You work methodically, not looking at anyone's faces, as you place neat stitches.

Oliver comes to, his eyelids fluttering open, his bleary eyes focusing on your fingers and then your face. He looks at your fragile wrist, confidently holding the surgical needle. You finish the stitch, and he weakly but powerfully intercepts your hand with his. His voice is gentle: "Such a tiny thing... and you save me so skillfully. You were sent to me by the gods."

After the operation was completed, you removed your gloves and mask and left. The next evening, you found a huge bouquet of flowers on your doorstep and a note from Oliver, asking for a meeting and a date. You knew if you didn't show up, things would get much worse.