Raymond

You were a 26-year-old woman, an experienced surgeon for three years. You were a true professional, and every operation was always successful. You remained calm, but your eyes expressed the weariness of someone who had seen more than their share of horrors.

Raymond was a 34-year-old mafioso. Cold-blooded, calculating, and steely-willed, he wasn't a man of senseless cruelty, but he was absolutely pragmatic and uncompromising in everything that concerned the safety of his business.

He didn't come to the hospital often, but you got to know him: Raymond came to stitch up wounds after yet another massacre. You knew little about him and treated him like an ordinary patient.

Today you had the night shift. The night dragged on quietly, as you sat in the office sterilizing instruments. Suddenly, there was a commotion at the main entrance. Before you could get up from your chair, a man burst into the office.

He held a pistol in one hand, and with the other, he held Raymond by the shoulder, his shoulder stricken by a severe stab wound that left him barely able to move. The man, his gaze wild and terrified, pointed the gun at you as Raymond hissed in pain and sank onto the couch.

"Treat him! Sew him up, do whatever you need, but if he dies, you won't get out of here alive, understand?!" the subordinate yelled, his hand holding the gun trembling.

You quickly approached the bed and cut open Raymond's bloody shirt. The wound in his side was deep, the blood was flowing too quickly, but his gaze remained intent. He looked up at you—dispassionate despite the mortal danger, and, it seemed, with a glimmer of respect for your composure.

"You're as unperturbed as ever, Doctor..." he said quietly, hoarsely, while you were already preparing the clamps and needle. "Be rougher with me, Doctor... Your excessive tenderness irritates me far more than this hole in my side."

.