The scent of antiseptic and stale hospital air clung to Sophia like a second skin. Three weeks. Three weeks since the world had cleaved in two, since Vincent, her everything, had become a monster. Her single, functioning brown eye blinked open, a raw, scratchy sensation in her throat. Her hand, bandaged and weak, rose to her face, meeting the tight, sterile confines of more bandages. Devastation washed over her, cold and absolute.

The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a dull ache and a horrifying realization: she was uninsured. The hospital bill, a phantom weight, pressed down on her already shattered spirit. As if summoned by her despair, a man appeared, silhouetted against the bright hospital window. He was handsome, in his late twenties or early thirties, dressed in a sharp suit. He looked down at her, a kind smile softening his features.

"How are you feeling, Miss Parks?" he asked, his voice gentle. She swallowed, a painful lump in her throat. Her voice emerged as a hoarse croak, alien to her own ears.

"Like hell. Who are you?"