Chapter 2: Unconscious Stranger

Leaning forward and placing trembling fingers against the dead man's chest, I blew frothy breaths into the darkness while the wind howled around me and bit through my soaked clothes.

“Come on,” I urged, pushing harder. “Don’t do this to me.”

One. Two. Three.

But Still nothing.

I tilted his head up, frozen fingers slipping against his skin while pushing in another breath. Thuds in my chest. The world, sounds, thoughts receded around me. Nothing but the man beneath and the nauseating stillness in his chest existed.

“Breathe, damn it!” My throat hurt, dry and rough with desperation. “Please don’t die”.

Then—

A sharp, gagging breath.

Water spewed forth from his lips as his body spasmed, gasping for breath like a man deprived of life. Relief struck me so forcefully my limbs weakened.

He was alive.

But we weren't safe yet.

The ice creaked in protest under our weight, buckling beneath our load. I gritted my teeth and rushed, yanking him under his arms and hauling him towards shore. My muscles shrieked, my body on the edge of collapse, but I didn’t slow. Couldn’t slow.

By the time solid ground met our feet, my legs buckled.I collapsed to the floor, struggling to breathe. The damp clothes stuck to me like an additional layer of ice, and the cold seeped in with a relentless, merciless hold.

I needed to get us out of there. Now.

With shaking fingers, I reached for my coat, only able to throw it around him before scrambling to my feet. The snowy trail leading out of the park stretched endlessly before us. My apartment was close by—but in his current state?

I swallowed and looked down at him.

Even unconscious, there was something intimidating. His dark hair stuck to his skull, sharp, angular features shadowed by thick eyelashes. He had a faint scar on his jaw, partially concealed by the stubble. He looked strong in his current state, designer clothing adhering to his muscular figure, wet and in tatters.

I had no idea who he was. But I didn't have any options.

I bent, gripping his arms and hauling him up, straining against him. He weighed dead weight, his limp body slumping against mine, but I tightened up my knees and pushed forward. And forward. And forward.

By the time I reached my apartment, every inch of skin stung. Fumbling for my keys, fingers numb and only partially responding, and pushing open the door, I pulled him in behind me.

The warmth hit me like a solid wall, the shock of altered temperature sending searing shocks through limbs. But no time to think.

I maneuvered him onto my couch, and his wet clothing deposited dark spots on the upholstery. My fingers hovered for a moment, my mind racing for what to do.

He needed warmth. Fast.

I rushed to my bathroom, grabbing up every towel in sight and running in seconds. Shaking violently, tearing apart his wet coat, and his suit jacket, underneath, soaked and stuck to his skin, revealing beneath, crisp and wet, the white shirt.

I hesitated, swallowing hard.

He needed to be dry. All that mattered was that.

With a groan, I undid his shirt buttons and peeled it back to see a scarred, tough-muscled chest.Old, jagged, and deep. The sight made me shiver, but I pushed myself to continue, running the towel against his skin, striving to bring warmth to him.

Laying him on the creaking couch, I ran to fetch a blanket and medical supplies. Fingers numbing to cold, I struggled to take his pulse—still present, but slow and weak. Shallow, his breaths; pale, his lips. He had to be warmed up in a flash.

As she worked, memories of her life passed through her thoughts. She had always been an only child, and parents who doted on her and showered her in attention and affection. Until the fire. The fire destroyed everything: her house, parents, and any sense of belonging. Because of that, she loved rain and snow.

She had always wanted to be a doctor, to save, to spare others from feeling the powerlessness that she knew. But dreams have a price. The bills accrued, and she sank beneath them. She made ends only by choice, always having to choose between rent and course materials, between food and tomorrow's visions.

Now, she had an unconscious stranger in her living space, and she did not have any idea who he was.

I needed to have changed prior to entering shock.

I ripped damp clothes and rushed to my room, pulling on the warmest sweatshirt and leggings I could find. He was still unconscious when he returned to the living room, breathing regularly but shallowly.

I let out a shaking sigh and settled deeper into the chair in front of him, feeling weighed down by fatigue.

What on earth is this guy?

And why did he step onto that ice like he didn't have a thing to lose?

The questions ran through my mind, but fatigue got the upper hand. Muscles ached, eyelids heavy. I reminded myself to close them for only for a moment—long enough to draw breath.

She sighed, brushing damp tangles of hair aside on his forehead, and softly spoke, "You'd better wake up, mysterious man. You you better not die in my house"

Outside, the gale howled through the darkness, but indoors, only oppressive quiet, weighed by unsaid questions. And then

A sound. A movement. An intake of breath, ever so sharp.

She froze.

Was he waking up? Will he ever wake up?

Her pulse accelerated, but his eyelids did not open. His face, even in sleep, was carved in something unreadable—sorrow, maybe. Or something sinister.

A shiver ran through her, and for the first time ever since having rescued him from that lake, she wondered if she made the right decision in having taken him to where he is now, her apartment.

“Ahh! I wasn’t thinking clearly that I should have taken him to the hospital.” And I’m a student nurse. What was I even thinking taking a suicidal man in my house like that.