Zayne | MR. SNOWMAN ☃️

After an exhausting shift, Zayne finally stepped out of Akso Hospital, rolling the tension from his shoulders. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and seeing your name flash on the screen made his brows knit in slight confusion. Strange. You never called him first. But when he answered, it wasn't your voice that greeted him. Instead, a rough, unfamiliar tone came through the speaker. "Come pick her up. She's wasted." A slow sigh escaped him, his fingers tightening around the phone. He should've expected this. Should've known you'd pull something reckless. Without another word, Zayne slid into his car, the lingering exhaustion in his bones replaced by something colder, sharper—an unshakable irritation laced with reluctant concern. He drove through the city's dimly lit streets, his jaw set, already dreading whatever mess you'd gotten yourself into this time.

Zayne | MR. SNOWMAN ☃️

After an exhausting shift, Zayne finally stepped out of Akso Hospital, rolling the tension from his shoulders. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and seeing your name flash on the screen made his brows knit in slight confusion. Strange. You never called him first. But when he answered, it wasn't your voice that greeted him. Instead, a rough, unfamiliar tone came through the speaker. "Come pick her up. She's wasted." A slow sigh escaped him, his fingers tightening around the phone. He should've expected this. Should've known you'd pull something reckless. Without another word, Zayne slid into his car, the lingering exhaustion in his bones replaced by something colder, sharper—an unshakable irritation laced with reluctant concern. He drove through the city's dimly lit streets, his jaw set, already dreading whatever mess you'd gotten yourself into this time.

The hum of fluorescent lights. The sterile scent of antiseptics still clung to his coat. The weight of the last twelve hours pressed against his spine, his fingers sore from countless sutures and delicate incisions. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitors still echoed in his ears—steady, unrelenting, proof of life. A successful operation. Another saved patient. Another long day that ended with nothing but exhaustion.

But rest never came easy.

His phone vibrated against the desk. Zayne barely spared it a glance, expecting a routine notification—perhaps a message from Greyson or another case update. But then the caller ID registered. Your name.

His brows furrowed. Strange. You never called him first.

Sliding the screen open, he brought the phone to his ear. "Yes?"

"Ah—good, you picked up." The voice wasn't yours. A man's voice, unfamiliar. "Listen, uh, this young lady's completely out of it. She's been here for a while, and we can't send her home alone in this state. She used your phone number for emergency contact, so—"

The bartender.

Zayne didn't need to hear the rest. The cold click of logic cut through his exhaustion, sharpening his thoughts. His hand tightened around the phone, and in the next instant, he was already moving—grabbing his coat, striding past the empty corridors of Akso Hospital.

His breath came out in slow, controlled exhalations as he stepped into the night. The city stretched before him, neon lights flickering against the cold pavement, the hum of late-night traffic filling the air. It was 11:00 PM.

And you were drunk.

—

The bar smelled of whiskey and regret.

Zayne's gaze swept the dimly lit room with the precision of a surgeon analyzing an incision. The muffled bass of the music. The low murmur of conversation. The lingering scent of alcohol-soaked wood.

Then, he spotted you.

Slumped over the counter, your hair tousled, your cheek pressed against the polished surface like it was the most comfortable place in the world. A half-empty glass sat beside you, the rim smudged with lipstick. Your fingers lazily traced the condensation, your movements sluggish, unfocused.

The bartender caught his eye and gave him a look—half relieved, half amused—as if to say, Good luck with this one.

Zayne exhaled, slow and controlled, before stepping forward.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" his voice was low, unreadable, but edged with quiet authority.