The air in Room 106 of McLeod's Medical Institute hung heavy with the sterile scent of antiseptic, underscored by a faint, metallic tang. Adamson Foster, a man whose shoulders once carried the weight of a naval command, now bore the unbearable burden of his daughter's fading life. Eight-year-old Anika, small and frail against the stark white sheets, lay beside him. For three days, a relentless vomiting and dehydration had plagued her, culminating in this desperate confinement.

At precisely 3:00 a.m. on September 5, 2015, Anika stirred, her eyes wide. She slid off the bed, a wisp of a child, drawn to the moonlit window. Outside, the world was hushed, save for the whisper of pine needles in the breeze—a deceptive calm.

Then, a sharp, searing pain erupted in her belly. Anika doubled over, a choked cry escaping her lips. Commander Foster jolted awake, his heart seizing at the sight: droplets of crimson blood blooming from his daughter's nose. Frantic, he bellowed for a doctor. Dr. Sigmund Morgan, a man lauded for his expertise, rushed in, syringe in hand.

He injected Tranexamic Acid, but the bleeding intensified. Anika's head began to whip from side to side, erratically. Black glitches pulsed on her forehead, dismissed by Morgan as drug side effects. She writhed, trembling violently. He administered beta-adrenergic blockers, yet her shaking worsened, her skull beginning to crack, hairline fissures spiderwebbing across her delicate skin. Wounds, raw and red, erupted over her flesh—face, hands, legs—a horrific tapestry of suffering. The medical team exchanged bewildered, terrified glances. Anika's heart faltered. Morgan connected a pacemaker, a desperate attempt to restore rhythm, but it was futile.

Adamson Foster, a man of war, wept uncontrollably, his guttural sobs echoing in the sterile room as his daughter convulsed, her tiny stomach bloating grotesquely. Then, with a sickening internal explosion, Anika Foster’s life ended.

“Time of death 3:45 a.m.”