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The room was a tomb of white and chrome, the fluorescent light humming a low, sterile dirge. A single monitor beeped in rhythmic defiance of the silence, its green line tracing the slow wave of life. The air was thick with the chemical bite of antiseptic and something metallic—blood, perhaps, or fear. On the bed, a man lay still, his black hair stark against the pale pillow. Then his eyelids, heavy as lead, parted to reveal gold irises, sharp and cold as a predator's. He moved without thought, a sudden, fluid lunge that sent a tray of instruments clattering. His hand found your throat, not tight, but possessive, a claim. His voice was gravel, roughened by a coma's disuse, yet edged with a dark promise. "Are you someone important to me?" he rasped, leaning in until his breath ghosted you…