Bound To The Kingpin

Luna

"Mr. Jenkins breathing has worsened," I told Dr. Morris as we hurried down the dimly lit hospice hallway. "He's struggling to catch his breath, and his oxygen saturation is dropping."

Dr. Morris gave a short nod. "Was there any sign of distress earlier?"

"He mentioned mild discomfort, but it escalated fast. His daughter is with him—she's panicking."

We reached Room 214, and the moment I pushed the door open, the sound of ragged, labored breathing filled the space.

Mr. Jenkins lay against his pillows, his chest rising and falling erratically, his face pale and clammy. His daughter sat at his bedside, her fingers clutching his frail hand. Tears streaked her cheeks.

"Dad, hold on," she pleaded. "Please, just hold on."

I moved swiftly to his side. "Mr. Jenkins, it's Luna. We're going to help you, okay?"

His weak gaze met mine, his lips parted as he tried to speak—but only a wheeze came out.

"Let's get him more comfortable," Dr. Morris said.

"Luna, increase his oxygen and check his morphine dose. If he's in distress, we need to manage it."

I adjusted the oxygen flow, my fingers moving quickly.

His daughter looked up at me, "Is he—" Her voice broke.

I gave her a light smile. "He's not alone. We're making sure he's as comfortable as possible."

The beeping on the monitor steadied as the oxygen eased his struggle, but his body was still weak. "Luna, prepare a low-dose morphine drip," Dr. Morris instructed.

I nodded and got to work, ensuring the dose was precise. Pain relief and comfort—that was our priority.

As the medication took effect, Mr. Jenkins's breathing began to slow, becoming deeper, less strained. His features softened, the tension easing from his weak body.

His daughter sobbed quietly, brushing a trembling hand over his thinning hair.

"He's resting now," I murmured. "You can sit with him."

Dr. Morris glanced at me and gave a slight nod—silent approval.

Even when moments like this were routine, they were never easy. But I took my job seriously because, at the end of the day, it wasn't just about medicine.

It was about dignity. About giving patients peace.

And I would do it again and again.

"Hey, Rachel." I said closing the door and slipping my stethoscope inside my white coat as my colleague approached. Rachel had been working alongside me since my arrival. She started a few months before me, and despite the heavy nature of our job, she always found ways to lighten the atmosphere.

"How's Mr. Jenkins doing?" she asked.

I swallowed. "He's good. I just put him to bed." My voice came out weaker than I intended.

Patients taking their final breath in the hospice is nothing new we have encountered. But the bond we share with them. The stories they share with us. We are like family.

Mr. Jenkins is someone I have been taking care of for over a month now.

"You were really good to him. I know you'll miss him." Rachel's expression softened. I know what she meant by that. The final goodbye with Mr. Jenkins.

I nodded. I would miss him. Mr. Jenkins had been one of the rare patients who spoke openly about his life, his regrets, his dreams that would never be fulfilled. He made me laugh with his sharp wit, even in his weakest moments. And cracks just whenever the nurses and doctors are around. And now...

"Thanks, Rachel. I just wish I could've done more."

A loud growl erupted from my stomach, and Rachel burst out laughing.

"Luna, you're so busy taking care of everyone else, you forgot to feed yourself!"

I shot her a glare, though amusement tugged at my lips. "Maybe you should announce it to the entire floor while you're at it."

She raised her hands in surrender, still chuckling. "I can if you want me to. But seriously, go get something to eat."

"You're right. And I know just the person who can help me with that. Bye!" I waved her off and headed toward the cafeteria.

**

The rest of the day passed in a blur of patient check-ins, chart updates, and whispered reassurances. I returned to my office, trying to cool off my head from the exhaustion before I call it a day. My mind drifted to my grandmother—the woman who had inspired me to become a nurse.

I remembered the day she took her last breath. Surrounded by machines, strangers, cold fluorescent lights.

I should have been there. But I wasn't.

Tears welled in my eyes as guilt clawed at my chest. If I had fought harder, if I had insisted on taking care of her myself instead of trusting that my parents would...

But they hadn't.

They were too busy with work, too caught up in their own affairs to notice how frail she was getting, how the cancer had already taken root before they even thought to check.

A knock on the door startled me.

Rachel peeked in. "Aren't you going home?"

I glanced at the clock, surprised by how late it was. Sometimes I got so immersed in my work that I lost track of time.

Or maybe... I didn't want to go home. To an empty apartment. To the quiet loneliness that always awaited me.

"I'm heading out now," I told her, forcing a smile.

As soon as she left, I grabbed my bag and coat. The moment I stepped outside, the cool winter air nipped at my skin, making me pull my muffler tighter around my neck.

Winter always brought back memories.

Despite my parents being around, I had spent most of my childhood with my grandmother. The warmth of her embrace, the sound of her laughter, the way she always knew how to make me feel safe.

But now, they were all gone.

My parents died in a car accident. My grandmother lost her battle with cancer.

And I was alone.

I walked my usual path home, my apartment only a few blocks away from the hospice. Normally, I'd put in my earphones, let music drown out my thoughts. But tonight, something felt... off.

I fished out my earphones, ready to play a song, when movement caught my eye.

A figure leaned against the alley wall, barely visible under the dim streetlight. His breathing was ragged, his dark clothes soaked in something that made my stomach twist.

Blood.

I hesitated, instincts screaming at me to turn around, to walk the other way.

But I was a nurse. I had never been able to ignore someone in need.

Taking a cautious step forward, I cleared my throat. "Hey... are you okay?"

No response.

I reached out, intending to check his wound—

Before I could react, my back slammed against the cold brick wall, a large body pressing into mine.

A gasp left my lips as something cold and metallic pressed against my temple.

A gun.

Oh my God.

I forced myself to look up. The man's face was shadowed, but his eyes—dark, piercing—locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch.

I wanted to scream, to shove him away, but my voice refused to work.

Somehow, he had my ID card in his hand. His grip on it tightened, his eyes darkening as he read my name.

I swallowed hard. "I'm... a nurse. I can help you."

His jaw tensed, but he didn't move.

"Let me treat your wound," I continued, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear clawing at me. "But you have to let me go first."

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—hesitation? Pain?

He shifted slightly, but the gun didn't lower.

I forced in a slow breath. "I won't run. Trust me."

Why the hell was I saying that? I should run. Everything about this man screamed danger.

But the nurse in me overrode the fear. His wound was bad. Blood pooled at his feet, soaking into the pavement. If he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't last long.

Still, I had no idea if helping him was the right choice—or if I was walking straight into a nightmare I couldn't escape.

I should have turned around and walked away. Instead, I did the stupidest thing imaginable.

I took him home.

A bead of sweat formed on my forehead as I grabbed the bottle of antiseptic. It was hard to concentrate with a stranger in my home—a bleeding stranger. And on top of that, he had a gun resting on the stool beside him.

I hadn't been thinking when I brought him here. What if he killed me afterward? That would mean I had dug my own grave.

I didn't realize how deep his wound was until I tore the fabric of his sleeve. My heart nearly gave out.

I was still trying to figure out how to treat the wound without losing my mind because I had never seen anything like it. It looked as if he had been stabbed, yet at the same time, it resembled a burn—almost as if acid had been poured over his skin.

I swallowed hard and tried to compose myself. You can do this, Luna. You might be a hospice nurse, but treating a patient is nothing new to you.

You can do it.

I stepped forward, goosebumps spreading across my skin. "This will hurt. You have to stay calm," I said, though it felt more like I was reassuring myself.

But the stranger took me by surprise. He grabbed the bottle of antiseptic and poured it over his wound himself. Instead of him wincing in pain, it was my voice that let out a sharp gasp.

And it didn't stop there.

He suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward until I was standing between his spread legs. His deep voice was calm. Too calm.

"You have five minutes to wrap it up."

At that moment, I realized I had gotten myself into something far more dangerous than I had imagined.