You get up quietly. Connor stays on the couch.
You already know who it is. You don't need to check—but you do anyway.
You peer through the peephole.
Cherry.
You roll your eyes, but then—
You look again. Harder.
Something's wrong.
She's not standing there hands-on-hips, smirking like she owns the building. She's slumped against the frame, one arm braced on the door, face down, panting.
She bangs again—harder this time. Calls your name. It's not sing-song. Not teasing. There's urgency in it.
You glance back—Connor's twisted to look at you from the couch, his brows drawn tight.
Perfect. Just the way you always pictured this introduction.
You pull open the door and immediately step back. She's clutching her side—blood seeping between her fingers, trailing down her arm.
Your stomach drops.
"Cherry!?" You reach for her instinctively. "What the hell happened?"
She stumbles forward into your arms with a sharp hiss of pain. "Business meeting went south. Happens." She grits out, trying to sound casual—but she's gone pale.
You shut the door and lower her carefully to the floor leaning her against the wall, blood already soaking through her jacket. Warmth hits your hands.
"Shit. Okay. Okay—just stay still."
Connor stands—watching. Alert, but frozen. "She's bleeding out,"
"Yeah, no kidding." You say.
He watches, eyes sharp. "Wasn't she at your apartment the other morning? Trying to sell you on some kind of business opportunity?"
"Not now, Connor."
Cherry huffs through a tight breath. "Med kit. Please."
You hesitate. "...Right."
"Right, of course. Ugh, you gotta have something," she mutters through her teeth.
"I have... stuff," you say. "Just not all the stuff."
Connor takes a step closer. "Should I call emergency services?"
"No!" both of you snap at once.
You glance at him. "No hospitals."
Connor doesn't move. "She needs medical attention."
"I am medical attention," you say, already pressing your hand tighter to the wound. "Just get me some supplies. Please. In the bathroom. Top drawer."
He hesitates only for a second, then turns. He moves fast, opening the cabinet and grabbing the supplies.
Connor calls from the bathroom. "I found tape, gauze and rubbing alcohol."
"Bring it here," you shout. "And a clean towel if there is one."
He returns a moment later, handing over the supplies and a hand towel. You pull her jacket open. The wound is bad, but not fatal—not if you move fast. You press a cloth to it firmly. She hisses through clenched teeth and grabs your arm.
"Ow. God. Friendly hands, please."
Connor's gaze lingers on Cherry—then flicks back to you.
"So... what is she to you, exactly?"
YOU ARE READING
Predecessor (Connor x Reader)
FanfictionYou were never supposed to exist. An RK700. An earlier model meant to do Connor's job, but scrapped before you ever got the chance to leave the assembly line. Deemed a failure. Tossed in the dump. But you rebuilt yourself, piece by piece, and carved...
