"I had a high fever for seven days. My husband kept saying wait till tomorrow, so I called a cab and went to the ER alone. During the exam, the doctor looked at my ankle and froze, then shouted: ‘Call the police right away!’

I closed the laptop and slowly stood up, relying on a sleek wooden cane to support my healing leg. I stepped out of the dining room and walked into the dark living room, leaving only a single lamp burning in the corner.

A faint clack echoed from the kitchen door. The glass cutter’s soft whistle against the sliding pane, followed by the gentle click of the internal lock being slid open.

Footsteps—light, deliberate, completely unhurried—glided across the hardwood kitchen floor.

"I knew you couldn't resist coming back to your little fortress, Reese," Tristan’s smooth, icy voice cut through the dark.

He stepped into the living room. He was dressed entirely in dark tactical gear, wearing leather gloves. In his right hand, he held a sleek, silver pneumatic syringe—the exact same high-pressure applicator used in his research lab.

He looked at me, a sickening, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"You cut your ankle monitor, didn't you?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, though every instinct inside me screamed to run.

"A simple frequency jammer attached to the relay box gives me a forty-five-minute window before the central station realizes I'm off-grid," Tristan said arrogantly, taking a slow step toward me. "Plenty of time to fix my mistake."

"You killed Clara the same way," I said, leaning back against the edge of the mantle, ensuring the hidden camera inside the wall clock had a crystal-clear view of his face and the syringe.

Tristan paused, letting out a soft, amused chuckle. "Clara was weak. She complained too much. But you... you actually managed to stagger out to a cab. I have to admit, Reese, I was almost impressed. But your little blog post tonight? That was stupid. It sealed your fate."

"They know it was you, Tristan," I said, holding his gaze. "The police have the tissue samples. They have the bio-toxin signature."

"They have circumstantial evidence," Tristan corrected me, his eyes widening with unhinged malice as he took another step closer. "When they find you dead tonight from a sudden, fatal air embolism—staged to look like a tragic post-surgical blood clot—my lawyers will argue you died from complications of your hospital stay. The police case will crumble without their star witness."

He raised the syringe, his thumb hovering over the silent pressure trigger.