Three AM in the emergency room.

My least favorite time. The drunk drivers were in, the bar fights were stitched, and now came the quiet hours when the truly weird stuff crawled through our doors.

"Nurse Chen."

I looked up from my chart. Rodriguez, the night security guard, had that look. The one that meant something strange.

"What is it?"

"Supply closet B. I heard... noises."

"Rats again?"

"Don't think so." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Sounded like someone breathing. Heavy."

Great. Probably a homeless guy who'd snuck in for warmth. Happened twice a month.

"I'll check it out."

"Want backup?"

"For a supply closet?" I grabbed my penlight. "I'll be fine."

I shouldn't have been fine.

I pushed open the door to Supply Closet B, expecting a drunk, a squatter, maybe someone having a mental health crisis.

Not a man covered in blood with a stake through his chest.

"Jesus Christ."

He was propped against the shelving, pale as death, barely breathing. The stake—an actual wooden stake—protruded from just left of his sternum.

Punctured lung at minimum. Probably cardiac tamponade. He should be dead.

He wasn't.

I knelt beside him, penlight between my teeth, already cataloguing. Deep lacerations on his arms, defensive wounds. Blood loss severe. Pulse...

I pressed my fingers to his throat.

Faint. Barely there. But present.

"Can you hear me? I'm a nurse. I'm going to help you."

No response.

"I need to see the wound. I'm going to—"

His hand shot out.

Closed around my throat.

My penlight clattered to the floor.

His eyes opened.

Red. Not bloodshot—RED. Like something inhuman was looking out through human skin.

"Your blood." His voice was smoke and gravel. Ancient. "I can smell it."

I should have screamed. Should have fought. Should have done anything except what I did.

"Your wound needs cleaning." I kept my voice steady. Six years of trauma work. I'd seen men with limbs missing stay calmer than their families. "Sit still."

Something flickered in those impossible eyes. Surprise?

His grip loosened.

"You're not afraid."

"I'm terrified." I reached for the stake. "But fear doesn't help patients."

"I'm not a patient."

"You have a stake through your chest. That makes you a patient." I wrapped my hand around the wood. "This is going to hurt. A lot."

"You can't—"

I pulled.

The stake came free with a wet sound that would haunt my dreams.

He convulsed. Gasped. Blood poured from the wound.

Then something impossible happened.

The wound began closing. Flesh knitting together like a video played in fast-forward. The blood flow stopped. The edges sealed.

Within thirty seconds, there was nothing but smooth skin and old scars.

"Fascinating." The word escaped before I could stop it. "Accelerated cellular regeneration. Your blood must have remarkable coagulation properties."

He stared at me.

"You're categorizing me."

"I'm a nurse. It's what I do." I sat back on my heels. "What are you?"

"Something you shouldn't have saved."

He moved faster than I could track.

One moment, sitting against the shelves.

The next, standing over me. His hand in my hair. My head tilted back.

His face inches from my throat.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Then his teeth pierced my neck.

And everything went dark.