Seraphina Vitiello POV
I didn't die.
Apparently, the universe wasn't done with its joke yet.
I woke up in the same hospital room, anchored to the same bed.
My body was a patchwork of agony. Burns, cuts, lash marks, bruises—a living map of violence.
A doctor was checking my chart at the foot of the bed. He looked hollowed out by exhaustion.
"Your spleen ruptured," he said without looking up, his voice flat. "We fixed it. You're lucky."
"Am I?" I asked, my voice raspy.
He paused, his gaze drifting to the empty chairs in the room.
"No one is coming," he said softly. "They called. They said you are to be discharged tomorrow morning. They have a flight booked for you to London at noon."
"Okay," I said.
"They also said..." He hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "They said if you miss the flight, they will cut off your medical insurance."
I laughed. It hurt, sending a spike of fire through my ribs, but I laughed.
"Thank you, Doctor."
He left, unable to meet my eyes.
I waited until nightfall.
I got out of bed. Every movement was a scream trapped inside my skin, but I swallowed it.
I found my bag. It had been recovered from the wreck. Singed, but intact.
I took out the envelope with the ticket to London.
I shredded it into confetti.
I pulled out my phone. I had a secret account. Money I had earned doing online translation work under a fake name. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough.
I booked a ticket.
Not to London.
To Sydney, Australia.
The farthest place on the map I could find.
Then I pulled out the legal documents.
I had prepared them months ago, in my previous life, but never had the courage to sign them.
*Emancipation of a Minor.*
I wasn't a minor anymore, but the addendum was a legal termination of familial rights. A formal disownment.
I signed it. My signature was shaky, but the ink was permanent.
I found a small gift box in the bedside drawer—a complimentary chocolate box from the hospital. I dumped the chocolates onto the sterile counter.
I put the papers inside.
Then I reached into the hidden lining of my bag and pulled out a cassette tape.
It was old. Analog.
I had recorded it in the safe house. Just me and Dante talking in the dark. No names. Just voices.
*"Tell me a story, Seven,"* his voice on the tape whispered.
*"Once upon a time, there was a beast who was blind,"* my voice answered.
Isabella couldn't fake this. She didn't know the stories.
I put the tape in the box.
I closed the lid.
This was it.
The truth. And the goodbye.
