The OR lights burned white-hot as I clamped the artery. Blood slicked my gloves, the monitor flatlined twice—I ignored it. This man couldn’t die. Not like this.\n\n"BP’s crashing!" someone yelled.\n\n"I don’t care! Keep him alive," I snapped, pressing down with both hands. The bullet had nicked the aorta. One slip and he was gone.\n\nThey said he was dangerous. Gang leader. Killer. But in that moment, he was just another body fighting to breathe.\n\nWhen he finally stabilized, I collapsed against the wall, soaked in sweat and blood.\n\nThree days later, he walked into my apartment building like he owned it. Tall, scarred, voice like gravel.\n\n"You saved me," he said. "Now I’ll save your brother."\n\nMy phone buzzed—hospital alert: Lila coded again. No funds for ECMO.\n\nVictor stepped closer. "Marry me, Tessa. Say yes, and he lives."

I stared at the floor, heart pounding. Was this salvation… or a different kind of death?