The morning sun sliced through the silk curtains like it had something to prove.

I blinked, lips dry, and stretched out slowly.

The ache in my ribs had dulled into something manageable—painful but poetic.

Another reminder of survival.

As I was about to get up from my bed to plan my day, my phone suddenly buzzed against the nightstand.

I rolled over and picked it up. A message from an unfamiliar number popped up:

"Good morning, Ms. Diaz. This is Ezekiel Thornhill’s assistant. His ...