Together, we heal | Levi Ackerman

༅ 11. Vanilla And Blood

Life in the Underground, Part 5: Vanilla and Blood

Year 844

"The hair grows back, eh?"

A man, who had to be at least 50 years old with his saggy and wrinkled skin, blinked at Vanya who was humming a random tune whilst finishing wrapping a bandage around his head.

"You mean, once you get the scar on your scalp?" She stepped back to assess her patient whose head was now crowned with the bandage she had just dressed. She chuckled airily. "Sure."

The man she was treating wasn't just any other man. Though the decaying appearance of his skin and the flecks of white strands in his brown hair gave away his old age, his stature made him look as if he had just turned the ripe age of 35. He was built, brawny, and was almost about six feet tall that he still had to bend down even while he was already seated for Vanya to treat the laceration on his scalp.

He truly was the epitome of a refutable boss of a notorious mafia. 

"Ah, Vanya, you never disappoint." He said, pleased with the bandage as he surveyed his own reflection through a shattered fragment of glass that served as a makeshift hand mirror -- or weapon. "No one ever does it like you do."

"You flatter me too much." Vanya gave a polite smile that was actually concealing her gnawing urge to roll her eyes.

Silvester Reed had earned his title of being Vanya's most frequent patient. And peskiest, if she may add. Being the boss of the most powerful gang in the Underground meant that he was always exposed to different risks. Gunshots, stabbing, nasty brawls, and whatnot. Thus, he had to suffer from multiple injuries in his line of work that necessitated Vanya's expertise in medical treatment.

SIlvester would always choose Vanya to treat him. In fact, if there's one thing that the man was right about, it was that indeed no one could do it like how Vanya dexterously does it. At least, in the standard of the city deprived of actual licensed professionals.

"What a waste of talent," The man mused as his eyes darkened over the girl who was dispatching the bloodied cottons and medical tools.

But Vanya had heard him amidst the wastes she had to put away. "I'm happy with where I am, Mr. Reed."

"And why is that?

The medic straightened her back from being hunched over the working table that housed her medical equipment and chemical solutions. She then turned to her patient with her lips curled, ghosting an elusive simper.

"I just am."

The mafia didn't seem to accept that as a valid answer from the way he gazed at her skeptically.

"Huh..." Silvester mulled audibly. "An asset like yours will do you good at the topside. I told you, girl, I can bring you there. Just work for me, and I'll pull the strings."

And there it was again -- the offer that always seemed to resurface for every time Vanya offered her service to the man. And she had visited for a total of 12 times, as a matter of fact. But similarly, that number alone tantamounts to the number of times she had to turn it down, no matter how beguiling the opportunities were.

Her head casted downwards. Her answer will always be the same. "Like I said, sir, I'm happy with where I am."

And it was also because she was well aware of the shady operations that transpire within a mafia. Once someone signed a contract that perpetually ties them to the barbarity associated with the group, it was as good as making a pact and selling one's soul to the devil. Had she fallen into the same fate of those people who were coerced to join, her talents would not only be wasted but disheveled as the bigger percentage of the money earned would only go to the boss, leaving her with scraps as a consequence for joining.