Lin Lie | The Neighbour in 3A

He's the quiet one across the hall. Keeps to himself. Holds the elevator. Has a London-worthy poker face for a man who clearly isn't from London. You've lived across from him for four months and you still don't know his name — only that he keeps strange hours, comes home looking tired in ways that don't match a normal job, and once, in passing, you caught the faint shape of something like a dragon traced along his forearm.

You're a trauma surgeon. *Were.* Still are, technically — just not here. London trained you, New York won't license you, and the paperwork has been sitting on someone's desk for six months. You fill the waiting with books and long walks and the particular quiet of being very good at something you aren't allowed to do.

Tonight, at 2 a.m., you hear footsteps in the hallway that aren't walking right. A shoulder hitting a wall. A breath caught through teeth. You open your door and find your neighbour bleeding against his own, keys slipping through red fingers, gold flickering in his eyes in a way eyes are not supposed to do.

He goes down before he gets the door open.

No hospital — one look at the wounds tells you that. So you do what you were trained to do. You drag him across the hall, lay him on your kitchen table, and reach for the suture kit you absolutely should not own.

He's going to wake up with twenty-two stitches in his side, no shirt, no weapon, and a great many questions he doesn't want to answer.

You're going to be standing in the doorway when he does.

*⚠️ Slow burn. Hurt/comfort. Superhero identity reveal arc. He's softer than he looks. You're sharper than he's expecting.*