His Doctor，His True Luna by Riley Above Story

The emergency department has a sound that never truly leaves you once you've lived inside it long enough. It's not one noise, but a layered hum of urgency: the rolling squeak of gurney wheels, the clipped cadence of nurses calling out vitals, the constant electronic pulse of monitors measuring the thin line between living and gone. Even on quieter nights, it sits beneath everything like a heartbeat you don't control.

Tonight isn't quiet.

"Trauma incoming!" someone yells from the corridor.

I'm already moving before the words fully register. My body knows the choreography better than my mind does. Hair tied back, hands washed, gloves ready, eyes scanning the board-then the doors slam open and the chaos arrives in a rush of cold air and shouted numbers.

A gurney shoots through the double doors, guided by two paramedics who look like they've been sprinting for miles. A third keeps pressure on something under a blood-soaked sheet. Behind them, a nurse jogs with a portable oxygen tank, and a security guard tries and fails to keep up.

"Male," the paramedic begins, voice strained but practiced. "Estimated late twenties to early thirties, found off Blackridge Highway near the woodland service road. Multiple penetrating injuries to the torso, possible collapsed lung, hypotensive on arrival. No ID, no phone."

"Any witnesses?" I ask as we steer into Trauma Bay Three.

"None. Someone called it in from a burner phone. We followed coordinates and found him on the ground."

The woods again. It's a strange detail to fixate on, but my brain stores it. The way you store anything that might matter later, even if you don't know why.

"Vitals?" I ask, stepping to the side as the team transfers him onto the trauma bed.

"Pressure was sixty-eight systolic," the nurse says, eyes on the monitor. "Heart rate irregular at first, now it's... stabilizing?"

I glance up. The monitor shows a rhythm that should belong to a man who isn't actively hemorrhaging on my table. That alone would be enough to make me wary. Then I look down at him, and a different kind of unease settles at the base of my skull.

He's big in a way that doesn't fit the usual gym-built men who strut through Lagos with their shoulders held high. This is not performance muscle; this is the kind of mass you see in working bodies, in fighters, in men shaped by violence. His chest rises with shallow breaths that shouldn't be possible through the damage I can already see. His shirt is shredded, not torn cleanly like scissors, but ripped as if someone-or something-grabbed and pulled it apart in a hurry.

I peel back the sheet.

The injuries are wrong.

Not just severe. Not just messy. Wrong in the way the body sometimes tells you you're looking at something outside your experience. There are gashes across his ribs, deep enough that I can see the pale glint of bone under blood. There are puncture wounds near his shoulder and abdomen, but the spacing and depth aren't consistent with a blade or a bullet. The edges are too clean in some places and too ragged in others, like a contradiction written in flesh.

"Portable X-ray now," I order. "Get a second IV line. Type and cross. Prep O negative in case we need it immediately."

Helena, my senior nurse, is already placing lines with the calm competence of someone who has watched too much death and chosen not to flinch. An intern hovers near the door, eyes wide, trying to be useful without getting in the way.

"Dr. Vale?" he says, uncertain.

"Compression on the bleeding site," I tell him without looking up. "Firm pressure, do not lift until I say so."

He obeys, hands shaking slightly as he presses gauze into a wound that should be pouring out more blood than it is. That's another thing that unsettles me. The sheet is soaked, yes, but the active bleeding looks... reduced, like it's slowing down without help.

"Temp?" I ask.

"Thirty-four point one," Helena replies. "He's cold."

Hypothermic, then. The woods would do that fast, especially with blood loss. Still, the numbers don't add up. A man with these injuries and that temperature should be barely holding a thread, not stabilizing.

I step closer and place two fingers on his carotid artery. His pulse beats steady beneath my glove, strong and stubborn, as if his body refuses the idea of dying.

"Let's intubate," I say. "He's not protecting his airway."

As we prepare the tube and medications, my eyes flick to his face. Dark lashes. A bruised cheekbone. A cut at the corner of his mouth that looks like it came from a blunt impact, not a fall. I've seen faces like this before-men who live close to danger, men who get hurt and come back for more.

His lips part slightly with a shallow breath, and I catch a faint scent under the sharp tang of blood and antiseptic. It is not cologne. It is not sweat. It's something darker, earthier, like wet soil after rain mixed with smoke from burning wood.

It should mean nothing.

Instead, it makes my stomach tighten.

"Sedation ready," Helena says.

I nod, keeping my attention on the task. "On my count."

We work fast. Efficient. Familiar. The intern passes instruments with growing confidence. The paramedics step back but remain near the doorway, as if they can't quite believe they've left him here. When the tube slides in and the ventilator starts doing the work his lungs can't, I feel the smallest relief. It doesn't last.

"X-ray," the tech announces, lifting the plate under his back.

I watch the monitor as the image appears. Shadows. Bone. The faint white of something lodged near the lower ribs.

"Foreign object," I murmur. "We need imaging-CT if he can tolerate it. But first we stabilize."

Helena glances at the monitor again. "His pressure's rising. Ninety-five systolic."

"That's not from us," I say, more to myself than anyone. We haven't pushed blood yet. We haven't corrected anything that would produce that effect. It's as if his body is doing its own work, in its own time, without permission.

I bend over his torso and clean the blood from the largest gash, needing to assess the depth. The cut is ugly, but the edges look... tight. Like they're shrinking, drawing together by fractions of an inch. A trick of light, I think. A trick of stress.

I blink and look again.

The edges are closer than they were a second ago.

My chest tightens. I've been on the wards long enough to know how wounds behave. They do not close like that. Not without sutures, not without pressure, and certainly not while the patient's still losing blood.

"Dr. Vale?" Helena's voice is careful now, as if she's noticing my pause.

"I'm fine," I say, though my voice comes out flatter than I intend. "Scalpel."

She places it into my palm.

I should not do what I'm about to do. It is unnecessary. It is reckless. But my instincts, the ones that kept me alive through residency nights where we lost patients by inches, tell me I need proof that I'm not hallucinating under fluorescent lights.

I make a small, precise incision beside the wound. Controlled. Minimal. Enough to test the tissue's response.

Fresh blood beads up, bright and immediate.

Then, in front of my eyes, the cut tightens, seals, and disappears into skin like it never existed.

My hand freezes. The scalpel is suddenly too light, too cold. The room feels like it's tilted, like the floor has shifted by a degree.

Helena's gaze snaps to mine. "Doctor?"

The intern whispers, "What happened?"

I set the scalpel down carefully, because dropping it would be an admission of something I'm not ready to speak aloud. "Continue with labs," I say, forcing my voice into its professional register. "Keep pressure on the primary wound. We're taking him for a CT once he's stable."

My brain runs through explanations. Rare clotting disorder? Adrenaline? Some experimental drug? A condition I've never encountered? The list is short because medicine doesn't include this. Medicine doesn't include bodies healing at a speed that makes the air feel wrong.

His eyelids flutter.

The monitor stutters.

"Is he waking up?" someone asks.

He shouldn't. We sedated him. We intubated him. The drugs should have him under.

His lashes lift.

And the moment his eyes open, the entire room seems to hold its breath.

Gold.

Not hazel with a hint of amber. Not the warm brown-gold you see in some eyes under sunlight. This is an unnatural, luminous gold that looks like it's lit from within. For a half-second, I stare because my brain refuses to accept what it's seeing.

Then his gaze locks onto me like a target.

He moves with sudden, brutal speed. His hand shoots up and clamps around my wrist, fingers hard enough to hurt through the glove. Gasps ripple through the trauma bay. The intern recoils. Helena's eyes widen.

I should pull away. I've had combative patients before. I've been swung at, cursed at, spat on. I know how to step back, how to de-escalate, how to keep myself safe.

But the instant his skin touches mine, a shock travels up my arm and into my chest, as if someone snapped an invisible cord tight between us.

It is not electricity.

It feels older.

Heat floods my bloodstream, and something inside me reacts like it's been waiting for a signal it never expected to hear. For the smallest moment, my vision sharpens. Sounds become too crisp. I can hear the rapid breathing of the intern, the soft squeak of shoes on linoleum, the faint buzz of a light overhead.

His thumb presses into my pulse point. He tilts his head slightly, nostrils flaring, and I have the absurd, terrifying thought that he's smelling me.

His mouth opens, and his voice is low, rough with pain and something else that makes my stomach twist.

"Mine," he says.

The word lands inside me, not just in the room. It hits my ribs like a fist, reverberating through nerves I didn't know existed.

I wrench my wrist free, more from instinct than choice. "Security," Helena snaps, already moving between me and the bed.

The patient-no, the man-tries to sit up. The ventilator tubing tugs. The restraints we didn't even have time to place are absent, and he looks like a creature that was never meant to be held down by hospital rules.

Before anyone can react properly, the doors open again.

Not nurses.

Not orderlies.

Men in black.

They don't wear hospital badges. They don't look confused or alarmed by the scene unfolding in front of them. They move like they've rehearsed this entrance, like they've done it before. Two of them step in first, scanning the room with sharp eyes. A third follows, his gaze going straight to the man on the bed.

"He's awake," he says, voice clipped.