Chapter 6 No.6

Kimberly Graves POV:

The bedroom door swung open without a sound. A man stepped inside, tall and lean in a black trench coat, his face framed by gold-rimmed glasses. Behind him, two assistants moved with the same silent efficiency, their faces impassive.

His eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept the room once, taking in the opulent chaos, before landing on me. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something cold and hard crossed his features.

He knelt beside me, his movements fluid and precise. The first thing he did was not check my pulse, but pull on a pair of sterile medical gloves. His name was Evan Rothschild.

"Vitals are stable, but she's showing signs of shock," he murmured to an assistant, his fingers gently finding the pulse point on my neck. "Prep a mild sedative and a nutrient IV."

One of the assistants opened a hard-shell case. It wasn't a standard first-aid kit. It was a mobile operating theater in miniature, gleaming instruments laid out on sterile blue cloth.

Evan began his examination, his touch surprisingly gentle. He brushed the hair from my face, his fingertips ghosting over the swelling bruise on my temple. His gaze traveled down to my split lip, then to the distinct, finger-shaped bruises blooming on my neck. With every injury he documented, the controlled calm in his eyes hardened into something that looked like fury.

The other assistant produced a high-resolution camera, the kind used by forensic investigators. The quiet, clinical clicks of the shutter began to fill the room as he photographed every bruise, every cut, from multiple angles, a small ruler placed beside each injury for scale. This wasn't just medical treatment. This was a prosecution being built on my skin. Evan wasn't just a doctor; he was a weapon.

Under the prick of a needle for the IV, my eyelashes fluttered. My eyes opened to see a stranger's face close to mine, his expression one of intense focus. A primal instinct screamed, and I flinched away.

Evan noticed immediately, his entire demeanor shifting. The cold professionalism softened. "It's okay," he said, his voice low and soothing. "My name is Evan. Helios sent me. You're safe now."

The name 'Helios' was a magic word, a key that unlocked the tension in my muscles. I stopped struggling, my breathing evening out, though I still watched him, wary. He was a man of contradictions-a healer's touch and a killer's eyes.

"I've done a preliminary examination and collected evidence while you were unconscious," he explained. "Now I need to clean your wounds. This might sting a little."

I gave a weak nod. My eyes fell on the assistant with the camera, and I finally understood Helios's parting words. *Including the 'evidence'.*

Evan began to clean the cut on my lip, his movements impossibly delicate, a stark contrast to the cold anger I'd seen in him moments before.

"Is it... bad?" I asked, my voice a dry rasp.

The cotton swab in his hand paused for a fraction of a second. He met my gaze, and behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were a storm of complex emotions. "Under federal law," he said, his voice flat, clinical, as if he were reading from a textbook, "these injuries constitute Aggravated Assault, a Class D felony. The maximum sentence is twenty years."

He spoke like a lawyer, but I felt the rage simmering just beneath the surface of his words.

Nearby, the other assistant was carefully taking scrapings from underneath my fingernails and collecting fibers from my torn dress, sealing each sample in a labeled evidence bag. I watched them, a strange sense of detachment settling over me. The fire of my own rage, which had been a desperate, flickering flame, was now being doused in the high-octane fuel of their professionalism. It burned hotter, brighter.

Once the wounds were treated, Evan administered a painkiller into my IV. The relief was immediate, a warm, numbing tide that washed away the sharp edges of the agony, leaving my mind unnervingly clear.

He stripped off his gloves, his movements economical, and stood up, the cool, detached professional once more. He looked down at me, his head tilted slightly.

"Graves Kramer, correct?" he asked, the question seemingly unrelated to my medical condition.

My heart gave a painful throb. I nodded.

Evan adjusted his glasses, the light glinting off the lenses and hiding his eyes. "The legal process is long," he said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "And it can be... unpredictable."

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper that was somehow louder than a shout in the silent room. I could see past the reflection now, see the cold, lethal intent in his eyes. It was the look of a man offering a final, absolute solution.

"Do you want me to handle him for you? In a way... that can't be traced."