Скачать или смотреть She's Losing Too Much Blood—I Need Her Blood Type NOW—Black Delivery Girl: Take Mine, I'm O-Negative

The screech of tires. The sickening crunch of metal. Glass exploding across asphalt like a thousand dying stars.
Kendra Matthews didn't see the accident happen—she heard it. That specific sound of impact that makes your stomach drop, that tells you someone's life just changed forever.
She was three blocks away, maneuvering her beaten Honda Civic through Manhattan's evening traffic, a stack of delivery orders going cold in the passenger seat. Twenty-seven years old, wearing the ugly red polo that marked her as DashQuick Delivery, hair pulled back in a practical bun, dark skin gleaming with the sweat of a woman working her third double-shift this week.
The GPS chirped. Turn left in 200 feet.
But Kendra's foot was already on the brake. Because that sound—metal tearing, glass shattering, the specific pitch of a child screaming—that sound pulled at something primal in her chest.
She shouldn't stop. She had six more deliveries before her shift ended at midnight. Her manager, Derek, had already written her up twice this month for being late. One more strike and she was gone.
But the screaming didn't stop.
Kendra pulled over, hazard lights flashing, and ran toward the intersection where smoke was already rising into the darkening sky.
The scene was chaos. A black SUV—expensive, the kind with bulletproof glass and a price tag that could buy three of her cars—had T-boned a delivery truck. The SUV's front end was crushed, the driver's side door hanging at a sickening angle.
And inside, barely visible through the spider-webbed windshield, Kendra saw her.
A little girl. Maybe six years old. Korean. Wearing a pink dress now stained dark with blood. Her face was pale, lips already turning blue, and she wasn't screaming anymore.
That was worse. So much worse.
Kendra's nursing school training—two years completed before student loans and reality forced her to drop out—kicked in with muscle memory precision. She yanked the SUV's back door open. The girl was in a car seat, secured but unconscious. Blood pooled beneath her, flowing from a gash across her abdomen where something sharp had penetrated.
"Baby, can you hear me? Baby, stay with me."
The girl's eyes fluttered. Unfocused. Fading.
The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, also Korean, also bleeding but conscious. And in the back, pressed against the opposite door, was a man who looked like he'd been carved from stone and dressed in a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
Korean. Thirties. Breathtakingly handsome in that dangerous way that screamed trouble. Sharp jawline. Perfectly styled black hair. Eyes so dark they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
And those eyes were locked on the dying child with an expression of such raw, desperate terror that it stopped Kendra's breath.
"Help her." His English was perfect, his accent barely there, but his voice cracked. "Please. Help my daughter."
(His World Collides With Hers)
His name was Kang Jihoon.
Kendra didn't know that yet. Didn't know he was the heir to one of the most powerful Korean crime syndicates in New York. Didn't know the SUV's bulletproof glass had failed because the accident had been planned—a hit disguised as a traffic collision. Didn't know that the unconscious driver was one of his most trusted bodyguards, or that the little girl bleeding out in the back seat was the only thing in this world Jihoon loved more than power.