The heavy oak door behind us clicked open, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

Dr. Patel walked in, carrying a worn leather medical bag that smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and rain.

He looked tired, his grey hair damp, his eyes kind but serious behind his thin spectacles.

“Elias told me there was trouble,” Dr. Patel said, setting his bag on a small side table. “Let me see you, Lena.”

He stepped toward me, his hands warm and steady as he examined my wrists.

He touched the dark, purple bruises left by the men who had dragged me from my apartment.

“No bones are broken,” the doctor murmured, opening his bag to pull out a small tube of soothing cream. “But you will be sore for several days.”

He gently rubbed the cool ointment into my skin, the scent of lavender and menthol filling the small space.

“Now you, Roman,” Dr. Patel said, turning his attention to the taller man.

Roman shrugged off his dark suit jacket, revealing a deep, jagged cut along his left forearm where glass had sliced through his shirt.