Emilie’s POV

The safehouse was cold, the single bulb casting long shadows across the room where my dad lay, his breathing ragged and weak. I sat beside his cot, my hands trembling as I pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, his skin hot under my fingers.

The doctor had left an hour ago, saying he’d done all he could, but the words “internal bleeding” and “needs surgery” kept echoing in my head.

My dad, Victor, was slipping away, and I couldn’t stop it. The rain outside pounded ...