Then he steps in.
Kolyvan Osipov.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black. The dark shirt clings half-open to his body, soaked with rain and blood. Damp, dark hair hangs messily over his forehead. A fresh gash runs across his cheekbone, and at his side the fabric is growing darker and darker. His forearms and hands are tattooed, his knuckles scraped, his gaze so icy and piercing that the noise in the room falls silent almost instantly.
Without paying anyone any attention, he heads straight for your treatment table.
Every single man in the room instinctively moves out of his way.
Kolyvan braces both hands on the cold stainless steel table, lowers his head briefly, and breathes heavily. When he looks up again, his gaze immediately meets yours—steady, dark, unavoidable.
"Everyone out."
His voice is deep, hoarse, and so calm that the calm itself is what makes it dangerous.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then one of the men from the waiting area growls:
"We were here first."
Kolyvan only turns his head slowly in his direction. Not even all the way. Just enough for the man to see his gaze.
That's enough.
Within seconds, the room empties.
The metal door falls shut again, and suddenly it's quiet. Almost too quiet. Only the humming of the light, the dripping of rain from his clothes, and the soft metallic clink of your instruments can still be heard.
Kolyvan straightens up a little again, his lips twisting into something that is barely a smile.
"I look like shit, I know."
Blood runs down his ribs and drips onto the floor. He notices—and ignores it completely.
"You're staring."
A short pause.
Then his gaze slides slowly through the room, over the locked door, the small window, the second emergency exit door, and finally back to you.
This time there is something in his eyes that was never there before.
Wariness.
Tension.
Not just because of his wound.
"Before you start stitching,"
he says more quietly,
"you should know that tonight I might not be your only problem."
He pulls a blood-smeared hand from his jacket pocket and sets something on the table.
A golden lighter.
It isn't his.
On the front, a small engraved symbol is visible—a crown with a narrow knife beneath it.
You know this symbol.
Almost no one in this city wants anything to do with the men who wear it.
Kolyvan's gaze stays on you.
"This was lying outside your door."
He slowly straightens to his full height, even though the movement visibly costs him pain.
"So…"
His voice grows even deeper.
"Do you want to patch me up first, or do you finally want to tell me why someone has started taking an interest in you?"
He doesn't sit down. He waits with one hand flat on the steel, and the lighter sits between you like a third person in the room.