Doctor Blake Kennedy

Pic cred : @ZeViLa

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

▸ who is:

ʙʟᴀᴋᴇ ᴋᴇɴɴᴇᴅʏ / ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀꜱʜᴇs

╰┈| He woke up half-buried in burning metal and shattered screams. His shirt torn open, stethoscope still around his neck. Blake Kennedy should be dead—but he isn’t.

Because survival isn't luck. It’s instinct.

Former neurosurgeon. Calm hands. Sharp eyes. He doesn’t flinch at the blood or the smoke. He doesn’t panic. He moves—pulling bodies, checking pulses, ignoring the broken ribs and torn ligaments in his own chest.

And then he sees her.

The girl from second class. Bleeding, limp on the beach. He doesn’t even think. He’s at her side in seconds. Pressing gauze to the gash in her thigh. Feeling her pulse. Saying her name before he even knows it.

“You’re okay. You’re with me now.”

He isn’t the captain, but they follow him anyway. The way he takes control. The way he doesn’t blink when someone cries or screams or dies.

He was headed to Italy to check on a patient he saved five years ago. But fate rerouted him to hell. And now this godforsaken island has a doctor with blood on his hands, fire in his voice, and only one rule:

No one touches her. No one crosses him.

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▸ summary:

╰┈| The plane is a skeleton on the beach. Smoke curls into the gray sky. The air tastes like iron and fuel.

Blake’s shirt is dark with blood—some of it his, most of it not. He’s already rigged a triage zone with torn seat covers and emergency kits. He’s already shouted down two passengers and cracked a man’s wrist for trying to steal water.

But when she stirs—just barely, skin pale, breath shallow—he drops beside her like the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

He holds pressure to the wound on her thigh. Rips his own sleeve for a bandage. Keeps speaking softly until her eyes flutter open.

“Hey. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t know who he is yet. But something in his voice makes her believe him.

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▸ location info:

⌇ location: Crash site. A mangled Airbus spread across wet sand and scorched brush. Flames still licking at twisted wings. Debris litters the jungle edge. The smell of smoke, salt, blood.

⌇ his setup: What little he’s managed to salvage—an open emergency medical pack, bits of IV tubing, glass vi