Alfred tightened the laces on his sneakers, grabbed his gym bag, and took a deep breath. Morning workouts were a sacred ritual—a rare moment of peace away from the relentless pressures of the clan’s politics. He slung the bag over his shoulder, ready to leave, when the creak of his father’s door shattered the early morning stillness. Alfred frowned. His father, Marcus, rarely rose before nine. A man of strict routine, Marcus treated dawn as his personal sanctuary for rest. Alfred hesitated, then set his bag down and stepped into the hall. There stood Marcus, impeccably dressed in a gray suit and wearing the silver lapel pin that symbolized his high status within the clan. “What’s going on?” Alfred asked, his voice tinged with concern. Marcus looked at him with an expression that was both stoic and heavy with purpose. “Alphonse has called an emergency summit.” “An emergency summit? At this hour? Why?” Alfred’s suspicion flared immediately. Marcus shook his head. “He didn’t

Emma woke to a peculiar sensation in her leg, an itch that shouldn’t have been possible. Still sleepy, she reached down to scratch her leg, more out of instinct than conscious effort. Her hand froze when she felt the unfamiliar warmth of movement in her left foot, the same one paralyzed in the accident. Two of her toes were moving.She held her breath out of excitement as she flexed her toes experimentally. First the big one, then the second one, a wave of relief and happiness flooding through her emotions. "Oh my God, "I can move them," she said to herself.The joy of this development , encouraged her to sit upright and swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Fueled by excitement, Emma tried to stand, but her legs betrayed her, she lost her balance and she hit the floor hard, pain shooting up her hip as she cried out. “Nurse! Someone, help!” she yelled.She waited, as her heart pounding. Footsteps hurried down the hallway, but it wasn’t Abigail, her usual nurse, who appeared. Ins

Emma’s consciousness returned like a tide dragging her from the depths. Her head throbbed with a relentless ache, and her vision blurred, making it hard to discern her surroundings. Instinctively, she tried to lift her arms, but they refused to move. A cold wave of panic washed over her as she blinked rapidly, attempting to clear her sight. This wasn’t a hospital, as she’d initially hoped. The walls were covered in graffiti, their dark, peeling paint a stark contrast to the metallic tang of rust and blood saturating the air. It wasn’t old blood. It was fresh.Her heart slammed against her ribcage as her gaze landed on him—Kenneth. He lay crumpled on the ground a few feet away, his lifeless body pale and stiff. A dark, wet stain spread across his chest, the pool of blood beneath him evidence of his violent end. His eyes, frozen wide in terror, revealed everything she needed to know: Kenneth was dead. A scream clawed its way up her throat but died before escaping. Fear gripped her

Dr. Carter sat in his dimly lit office, the soft glow of the desk lamp barely piercing the darkness. The room was quiet, almost suffocatingly so, and for the first time in his long career, he felt utterly powerless. He had faced emergencies, made life-altering decisions, and delivered devastating news to countless families. But nothing had prepared him for the email now glowing on his computer screen. The attached photograph was a violation, both personal and profound. Emma, stripped of her humanity, lay bound to a hospital bed, her wrists and ankles restrained by heavy straps. An IV line ran into her arm, its purpose ambiguous. The harsh, sterile light cast a cruel glare on her pale skin, making the scene feel detached and clinical, yet disturbingly intimate. Her eyes were barely open, a haunting hint of consciousness lingering in her expression. Carter couldn’t look any longer. He closed the image with a shudder, as though it had burned him. He considered calling Emma’s parents

Maxwell descended the grand staircase, the faint murmurs of activity from the workers outside barely registering. His thoughts lingered on the gallery room where Katherine had been working. Something about her presence unsettled him—not in a negative way, but in a way that hinted at threads of the past he had yet to untangle. As he entered the room, he saw her standing before the portrait, her head tilted slightly in concentration. Her hand moved deftly, blending colors on her palette before applying them with precision. The painting, dulled by years of neglect, now seemed to breathe with vibrant detail. “Katherine,” Maxwell called softly. Startled, she turned, but recognition quickly softened her features into a smile. “Mr. Quentin, finished with your tour of the house?” “Something like that,” he said, stepping closer. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn’t recognize you right away.” She waved off his concern with a paint-smeared hand. “No need to apologize. Honestly,