Homebody.

That's what my Grampa always used to call me. And there was not an ounce of exaggeration in it. Except probably for that one six-month stretch where I had consciously entered the hoe-phase to get over a long-term, super-serious, almost-got-married relationship. And also, tonight.

I'm in a cab, heading home from a friend's promotion party, the wind whipping my hair out of shape. Crap! It'll probably take hours to detangle this mess.

Years to detangle the other mess, that is my life. How dare I enjoy myself at someone else's party, celebrate their professional growth, when mine is down the drain? How dare I sit and drink on their new couch, at their new house, when I'm living in the apartment left to me in my grandfather's will? With nothing to my name, not more than a few thousand in my savings, I go through life, both looking and not looking for new jobs because I'm not even sure I want what I told myself I wanted.

"Here, Miss?" The driver brakes on the side of the street — my street — and I step out. It's way past curfew and bedtime for most of my neighbours. The only light I see is from Ms. Fairybottom's apartment; she's probably doing a seance. As the cab whooshes past, a shiny Saab convertible on the other side of the street catches my eye. The black hood glistens under the lamppost but I'm too drunk to try to figure out who in the neighborhood bought a new car.

A strange, unfamiliar feeling, the feeling of being watched, creeps down my spine and I look over my shoulder to the direction I came from.

Scared for my life and future mental health (in case something actually happens), I run for the porch. I kick something in the dark, probably a flowerpot, but I have no time to inspect. Jamming the key in, I turn the lock and step inside with a hand on my fleeting heart. I slide down to my butt, with my back against the door, and clutch my throbbing head in my hands. Who broke my no-tequila rule in less than an hour? That's right, it's me!

I sit and stare at my pretty pink nail paint to help me ground myself until I hear my cat's purrs from somewhere deep inside the apartment. I look up and gasp.

First of all, how did I not notice until now that the lights in my living room are on even though I didn't press any switches? And, second of all, what is that red, smudgy handprint on my previously spotless beige wall?

Mirinda, my chaotic orange cat, purrs again but I can't see her. The rest of the apartment is drenched in darkness, starting from the hallway to the bedroom at the end of it. Another purr and then suddenly, two glowing googly eyes appear at the bedroom doorway.

"Baby." I click my tongue to get her to come to me. The dark alley of my once familiar home feels foreign and I refuse to step into that. I know I won't survive a haunted/crime setting. I'm no final girl. I leave before the horrors start. "Princess Miri, come here. Come here please."

She purrs again and her eyes disappear into my room. Why do you want me to die, Miri?

I gather my wits and the throbbing in my head intensifies as I stand up. Leaving my purse on the floor, I walk toward my room because that's what a mother does. No matter how scared you are yourself, you show up for your foolish child who saunters confidently into the terrifying unknown.

I stop for a moment in front of the wall with the hand print and extend my own hand. It's above my head. Although that's nothing remarkable considering I'm only five feet, two inches and everything is above my head. But this hand is definitely a tall hand — person or poltergeist, they're tall. And the red is definitely not acrylic paint.

Sucking up a huge breath, I go into the hallway and start turning lights on wherever I find switches. My bedroom is in total darkness except for Mirinda's eyes, now on the bed, and the glow of the bathroom tubelight streaming from the slit between the door and the floor.

"Oh my God, there's actually somebody here." I whisper under my heartbeat ringing in my ear.

Swiftly turning, I go into the kitchen and drag a particularly murderous looking knife from the countertop.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I'm too drunk and happy to get murdered now. Why couldn't this stupid person appear last night when I was actually having suicidal thoughts? I wouldn't have even minded. I'd have let little Miri out to run to Ms. Fairybottom while I happily bled out and watched my murderer strip the apartment of all its niceties.

I walk up to the threshold of my bedroom again and halt. There are muffled groans from inside the bathroom, shadowy movements visible from under the door. What do I do?

"Help."

I shudder as a voice comes from inside the bathroom, gripping the hilt of the knife even tighter. It's a man. Of course, it's a man. I listen to enough true crime podcasts to know that if a woman wanted to kill me, she'd befriend me and earn my trust first. A man is impatient.

But, this man sounded like he was hurt himself. Why and how did he get into my apartment if he's hurt?

"Dr. Castillo, is it you?" The voice again. I tiptoe to the bathroom door and listen. "Dr. Castillo?"

Dr. Castillo? Does he mean Dad? Or, Grampa?

Miri meows from the bed again, as if urging me to go help this man. Cats are so weird.

Taking a deep breath, I push the bathroom door open. I gasp again.

A man is sitting on my bathroom floor, with his back against the bathtub, red swatches all over its rim and on the floor tiles beside him. His golden hair is stuck to his forehead, drenched in sweat. His unbuttoned shirt offers a full view of his chest, rising and falling sharply with every breath. I have no time to admire the shape he's in because of the shape he's in.

I spot the source of all the blood on his left arm, just above the crook of his elbow. The man has his shirt sleeve removed and I can see the wound, still wet, oozing. A round wound. A gunshot wound.

"Please don't stab me," The man tells me, pointing to my knife with his uninjured hand. "I'm already bleeding."

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice shaking, my hands shaking.

"I'm Erwin Smith. And, I'm guessing you're not Dr. Matias Castillo. You look nothing like him."

My eyes flicker between the wound and his eyes. The beauty of his blue eyes are so striking against the terrors of his red blood, my jaw hangs low. What should I do?

Erwin answers the question on my mind again, as if he's reading me like an open book. "Come here, please. Help a wounded man out, will you, angel?"

Angel?

"I should call 9-1-1."

I turn but he stops me. "Please don't. I have a phone. If I wanted to go to a hospital, I'd have been there by now."

"You're going to..." I stutter. I've never seen this much blood. Even when I'm on my period. "You're going to bleed out and die in my apartment at this point."

He groans as he shifts his position. My God, he's so hot! "If you help me out a little, nobody needs to know." Erwin puts a finger to his lips.

"Help you out how?"

"Just take the bullet out, clean the wound and stitch me up."

I chuckle in disbelief. "I don't know how to do any of that, Mr. Smith. I'm not a medical professional."

"I'll walk you through it. Just come here, please." He motions for me to go over. "The knife, angel. Put it down, will you?"

Miri had walked into the bathroom sometime during our conversation and sat between us like a fly on the wall. Quietly, I put the knife on the sinktop and carry my cat outside into the bedroom before closing the bathroom door to keep her from coming back in.

Erwin folds one of his long legs to make space for me and I crouch down in front of him. "Mr. Smith," I try to reason with him again, "I'm not a doctor, nurse or EMT professional. On top of that, I'm very intoxicated. Sure, the high came down when I discovered a bleeding man in my bathroom but I don't think I can stitch your gunshot wound in this state. Look at my hands." I hold up my shaking hand in front of him but he only smiles. No, smirks.

"Even seasoned surgeons get nervous before their procedures, angel." He sits up straighter and drags something out with his right hand. "See, I dug up the old man's kit. I think you'll find everything you need in here. I've seen him use this before."

I bite my lip and scoot a little closer. Taking the kit from him, I look at it closely. Why haven't I seen this before, and what did he mean by he has seen it before? I take out the medical grade sanitizing wipes from the bag and decide to get to work. I don't see a way out of this. Maybe he would kill me after I have bandaged his wound. I mean, I'm sure that has happened previously in the history of true crime.

But, he is so handsome though!

So was Ted Bundy!

"Good girl," he whispers as I take his arm and wipe the blood off with the tissues. Go ahead and cry, little girl... shut up, brain!

I can still smell the booze on my breath. Or, maybe it's the alcohol of the wipes. It's pretty nauseating. I chose right by deciding not to follow in the footsteps of my ancestors, although I'm going nowhere in the career I chose either.

"So..." Erwin's voice drags me out of my dissociating thoughts. "How did Dr. Castillo get transformed into you?"

"He died, Mr. Smith." I sigh. "Six months ago. Fatal heart attack. I'm his granddaughter."

"Oh, I'm sorry for your loss. He was a good man." Then after a pause, "Will I not get a name?"

I look up at him, a little irritated.

"Angel it is then... if that's alright with you." He looks away and his smile diminishes, like he is guilty. I feel bad for being mad at him. Shit! This is what my cat does.

"I'm Niji," I reply, rummaging through Grampa's kit to see what I can use next. "How did you know my grandfather?"

Erwin looks at me again and from his voice, I can tell his teasing smile is back. "Niji. Niji." He says my name like he is examining its weight on his tongue, practising how to say it. "Rainbow." My eyes shoot up to meet his. "It's a very Japanese name for the granddaughter of a Mexican man."

"My mother was Japanese," I tell him, going back to the kit. "Will you tell me what to do next? Like I said, I don't..."

"Yes, angel, of course." He straightens up again. "You see those scissors?"

"They're called forceps."

He laughs. "And you said, you don't know anything. You stick the prongs inside my wound and take out the bullet. It's not very deep, angel. You can do it." He takes my left hand and guides it to his arm. When my thumb brushes over his open wound, he hisses, but he keeps going. Erwin presses my finger at a spot just beside the wound and I yelp. I can feel the body of the bullet just under his skin.

Gross. Gross. Gross.

"Now that you know where it is, just take it out with the..."

"Forceps."

"Yes, you get it, sweet angel." He needs to stop with this angel shit.

I move even closer, maintaining my thumb over the buried bullet, trying not to press too hard. I angle the tips of the forceps towards where I can feel it and my hand starts to shake again. "My God, Erwin, I can't do this. I'll damage some nerve or muscle tissue and you'll have to get your arm amputated. Please let me just call... OH MY GOD!"

Erwin tilts his body ever so slightly so that instead of my hand moving towards the wound, the opposite happens and the metal of the forceps hits the metal of the bullet inside his arm. He grunts and his right hand flies to hold me. His nails dig into my waist as his breathing accelerates. I gather my courage and get a hold of the lead to pull it out.

"Good God!" My hand shakes again as I look at the bloodied bullet, dripping on to the tiles, the hem of my dress, Erwin's shirt, everywhere. I drop it into the bathtub and it rolls toward the drain before coming to a stop just short of making an Irish exit. "Now I have to stitch it?"

"Yes, please." Erwin's breathing returns to a more normal pace and he lets my waist go. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. Now, listen, I don't know how to stitch a wound. If you do, you have to guide me every step of the way."

"Watch this," he says, pulling his phone out and literally thrusting that in my face. And, it's an youtube video about how to stitch a gunshot wound with the surgeon's knot.

"Mr. Smith, this is not banana bread... or... or, origami. Oh my goodness! I can't. I can't. I'm calling an ambulance."

"Please, angel." He seizes my wrist in his left hand.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sit back down. His grip is determined.

"You've done so well, so far. I'm sure you can do this too, angel."

Oh God! Oh God! Why did I agree to this in the first place?

I take out the needle and some medical-grade black thread from Grampa's kit and sanitize it with a tissue. I follow the video, looping the thread into the eye of the needle. The person on the video is performing the stitch on a cadaver and I have to do the same on a live person. I try to calm my erratic breathing, chewing the inside of my cheek as hard as possible. At this rate, I'll sew myself to him. "I think this will hurt," I tell Erwin, "a lot."

"Good thing I have you, angel." He places his palm on my waist again, sending sparks off my skin. Why does he have to be so hot? And charming?

With shaking hands, I once again get to work. Little groans and hisses escape Erwin's lips as the needle goes into his skin, over the wound and into the skin on the other side. When I finally tie the surgeon's knot and cut off the extra thread, my hands finally stop trembling. I wipe off any stray blood and put antibacterial ointment on the site of injury before wrapping his arm with gauze.

He lets go of me and smiles. "That's more like it, angel. You're a lifesaver."

I help him up and he bends over the rim of the bathtub to collect the fallen bullet. I watch as he puts it in the pocket of his jeans before turning to me. "Will you hate me even more if I say I'd like to take a bath?" Erwin smiles. Grins, actually.

Instinctively, I roll my eyes at him. "Go ahead. But don't let the bandages get wet." I get him a towel as he draws the bath. Just curious, I dip a finger into the water and flinch. "It's too hot, Mr. Smith. You'll scathe yourself."

"I'm used to it, angel, don't worry." He takes my chin in between his thumb and forefinger, and I freeze. "Worry doesn't suit you. Now, will you be a darling and unlock the front door for my associate?"

He has an associate? Of course he does. Two men are going to get together and kill me in my own apartment.

I step back, escaping his grip. "I need some answers before I let anybody else in."

A/N: Let me know what you guys think about Niji and her brain, and the gorgeous man who turned up at her house unannounced.

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