I sighed as I held on to my mug filled with coffee, staring at the ripples that danced along its dark surface. It was lukewarm now, untouched for too long, but I couldn’t bring myself to drink it. My eyes burned with exhaustion, and my heart was heavy with unease. The doctor had just arrived with a nurse, and they were upstairs running checkups on Heinrich. Still unconscious. Still pale. Still unmoving.
My phone buzzed against the counter, jolting me. I grabbed it quickly, hoping—foolishly—that it might be him. But no, it was Elizabeth. Her message popped up across the screen:
ELIZABETH: Hey, how are you feeling? Heinrich’s attack is all over the news.
I smiled weakly, the corners of my mouth barely lifting. Of course the world knew. Heinrich Volkov wasn’t just anybody—he was someone people either feared, hated, or respected. Some probably celebrated the news of his downfall. Too bad he wasn’t dying. Not today.