I sat in the uncomfortable vinyl chair beside Isabella’s recovery bed, feeling like a massive, clumsy ruin in this sterile, quiet wing. The chair was designed for waiting, not for resting, and every muscle in my body ached—not just from the wounds of the fight, but from the raw, concentrated shock of the last twenty-four hours. My hands, still bruised from throttling Damon, felt oversized and filthy, utterly unfit for the sacred space of this room.

She lay still, utterly still, the light ...