Fremont leaned against the wall outside the hospital morgue, his body numb, his mind a hollowed-out cavern of white noise.
Winston stood before him, his face carved from granite. "You will go in there," he commanded, his voice devoid of all warmth. He pointed the tip of his cane at the heavy, stainless-steel door. "This is a debt you owe her. You will look at what you have done."
A primal fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Fremont's stupor. He couldn't. He couldn't see her like that. He wanted to remember her alive, even her face contorted in pain and betrayal was better than the alternative.
"Sir," Arthur Cole murmured, his voice gentle. "It's a formality. For the records."
Fremont's legs felt like lead. Propelled by his father's unyielding glare, he moved as if in a trance. His trembling hand pushed open the heavy door.
The air inside was frigid, smelling faintly of chemicals. A single gurney stood in the center of the room, a stark white sheet draped over a human form. Every step he took was an act of self-flagellation.
He reached the gurney. His hand hovered over the sheet, shaking uncontrollably. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, a desperate, panicked rhythm. He remembered her warmth, the scent of lavender in her hair, the soft curve of her belly beneath his hand just weeks ago.
With a ragged gasp, he ripped the sheet back.
Her face was pale, utterly still, her lips tinged with blue. All the life, the fire, the quiet hope that had once animated her features was gone. It was a vacant, lifeless mask.
A strangled sound escaped his throat. He staggered backward, his shoulder hitting the cold, tiled wall. The image was burned onto the inside of his eyelids, a permanent scar on his soul. It would become the centerpiece of his nightmares for the next five years.
Days later, a small, somber funeral was held in the Slater family's private cemetery. A persistent, dreary rain fell from a slate-grey sky, plastering black leaves to the manicured lawns.
Fremont stood before a newly carved headstone, a hollow man in a black suit. The grave was empty. Her body, he'd been told, had been cremated.
Lilah, her ankle tastefully wrapped in a brace, tried to place a comforting hand on his arm. He flinched away from her touch as if burned, a look of profound disgust on his face. He was beginning to see her, truly see her, and he hated what he saw.
Winston watched the exchange from a distance, his expression one of cold contempt.
That night, long after the mourners had departed, an unmarked black van with tinted windows rolled silently through a service gate of the city morgue.
Two men and a woman, all dressed in black tactical gear, moved with quiet, professional efficiency. They met a morgue attendant who had been heavily bribed, exchanging a nod before entering the cold room.
The body on the gurney was not Isabela's.
They carefully transferred Isabela, who was unconscious and intubated, from a hidden medical compartment into a sophisticated life-support pod. Wires and tubes connected her to a bank of monitors displaying faint but stable readings.
One of the men spoke into a small microphone on his collar. "The Surgeon, this is Nightingale. Asset is secure. Vitals are weak but holding. We have confirmation of two fetal heartbeats. I repeat, two fetal heartbeats, stable."
The van slipped back into the city's sleeping streets, a ghost in the night, heading for a private airfield on the outskirts of town.
Five Years Later.
Sunlight, brilliant and warm, streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of a suite overlooking Lake Geneva.
Isabela's eyes snapped open. Her heart was racing, the phantom sensations of cold marble and sticky blood still clinging to her. The nightmare was always the same.
She took a deep, steadying breath, pushing the memories away. She was no longer that helpless, broken woman. That Isabela had died five years ago in a New York hospital.
The door to her bedroom burst open and two small boys, a whirlwind of energy, launched themselves onto her bed.
"Mommy, you had a nightmare again?" one of them asked, his dark eyes wide with concern. This was Nico. He pushed a glass of water into her hand, his small face serious.
The other boy, Leo, was already at her bedside, his brow furrowed as he studied the readings on the medical monitor. He looked like a miniature doctor. "Your heart rate is elevated, Mommy. Was it the call with Director Croft? I can make you some chamomile tea."
Isabela pulled them both into a fierce hug, burying her face in their soft hair. They smelled of sunshine and childhood. They were her world, the reason she had fought her way back from the brink of death.
Her personal assistant, a woman with a severe haircut and an air of quiet competence, entered the room. "Ms. Sullivan, your schedule for today. The video conference with Aegis Holdings is at ten. Maestro Dubois has requested to move your violin lesson to three. And there's a security breach at a financial firm in Tokyo that requires Jigsaw's immediate attention."
Isabela nodded, her mind already shifting through the complex layers of her new life.
She was no longer Isabela Sullivan.She was the owner of Olympus Entertainment and Aegis Holdings. She was the whispered-about miracle worker of the underworld, "The Surgeon"—a title earned by saving herself and her children against all odds, and now sought by the most powerful for impossible medical feats. She was the phantom hacker "Jigsaw," who could bring corporations to their knees with a few keystrokes. And she was "Anya," a rising actress poised to take Hollywood by storm.
She caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. The face was the same, but the eyes were different. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a core of tempered steel.
Fremont Slater. Lilah Reed.
I'm coming back.
