POV: Emilia Conti
I didn't sleep.
I lay on the edge of a bed that was too wide, too clean, staring at a ceiling that didn't belong to me, listening to the quiet hum of a place designed to keep secrets. The sheets smelled faintly of detergent and something sharper—ozone, maybe. Expensive. Impersonal.
The city outside the glass walls had begun to fade from black to gray, the kind of early morning light that usually meant freedom. A shift ending. A walk to my car. The comfort of routine.
None of that applied here.
At some point, someone had changed me out of my bloodstained scrubs. I was wearing soft clothes now—loose, neutral, unfamiliar. My shoes were gone. My watch, too.
I sat up, heart racing.
The door opened without a sound.
I turned sharply, already bracing myself.
It wasn't him.
A woman stepped in instead, carrying a tray. She was composed, professionally neutral, dressed in black slacks and a white blouse. No jewelry. No visible weapon. But the way she scanned the room before meeting my eyes told me everything I needed to know.
"Good morning, Doctor Conti," she said.
I stiffened. "How do you know my name?"
She placed the tray on the table. "You should eat."
"I asked you a question."
A pause. Calculated.
"You're safe," she said instead. "Mr. Lombardi asked that you be comfortable."
My stomach clenched at the sound of his name.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"In a meeting."
Of course he was.
"I want to leave," I said.
She folded her hands calmly. "That won't be possible today."
I swung my legs off the bed and stood. My balance wobbled for half a second, but I steadied myself.
"Move," I said.
She didn't.
We stared at each other, two women standing in a room that didn't belong to either of us.
Finally, she spoke. "You're not being punished."
"Then what am I being?"
"Protected."
I let out a bitter laugh. "You don't protect people by taking away their choices."
She didn't respond to that. Instead, she gestured toward the tray. "Please eat."
I ignored it and walked past her toward the door.
It didn't open.
I tried again, harder this time.
Locked.
My pulse spiked. I turned back to her slowly. "You told me I was safe."
"You are," she replied. "From external threats."
"And you?"
She met my gaze evenly. "I'm here to make sure you don't create new ones."
The words were delivered without malice. That almost made them worse.
I backed away from the door, forcing myself to breathe. Panic would get me nowhere. I'd learned that lesson early—during exams, during surgeries, during the months after my father died and everything else followed.
Control came from information.
"Where is my phone?" I asked.
"It's being held for security reasons."
"My bag?"
"Catalogued."
My jaw tightened. "My hospital."
Her eyes flickered, just slightly. "You've been placed on temporary leave."
That landed harder than anything else.
"What?" I stepped toward her. "They can't just—"
"They can," she interrupted gently. "And they have."
I stared at her, mind racing. "Who spoke to them?"
She didn't answer.
I sank back onto the edge of the bed, anger buzzing beneath my skin. "I need to make a call."
"You'll be given a secure phone later."
"When?"
"When Mr. Lombardi decides."
There it was again. His name. His control.
As if summoned by the thought, the door opened behind her.
He entered without announcement, dressed in a dark suit that fit him like it had been tailored around violence. His hair was still damp, as if he'd just showered. He looked rested.
I hated that.
The woman stepped aside immediately, lowering her gaze.
"Leave us," he said.
She hesitated only a fraction of a second before exiting.
The door closed. Locked again.
I stood. "You don't get to do this."
He regarded me calmly. "You're awake."
"That's your takeaway?"
"I needed to be sure," he replied. "You fainted."
"I was dragged into a car after watching you murder someone."
His expression didn't change. "That wasn't murder."
My hands curled into fists. "You shot an unarmed man."
"He wasn't unarmed," he said. "Just unprepared."
I shook my head. "You don't get to rewrite reality."
"I don't," he agreed. "I manage it."
That answer chilled me.
"I checked the hospital records," I said suddenly.
He raised an eyebrow.
"There's no record of you," I continued. "No admission. No surgery. No chart. It's like you never existed."
"Good."
"You erased everything."
"Yes."
"That's illegal."
"So is shooting at me in a public place," he said evenly.
I stared at him. "You were bleeding out."
"And you fixed it."
Silence settled between us.
"Why me?" I asked quietly. "Why not kill me and be done with it?"
He studied me for a long moment, eyes sharp, assessing. "Because you didn't freeze."
I frowned. "What?"
"You didn't scream. You didn't beg. You didn't run when you should have." He stepped closer. "You argued with me."
"That was stupidity."
"No," he said. "That was instinct."
I swallowed. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," he replied. "You don't break under pressure."
"I'm not one of your people."
"No," he said. "That's precisely the problem."
I laughed softly, humorless. "So I'm collateral damage."
He considered that. "No."
"Then what?"
"You're leverage," he said plainly. "And a liability."
The honesty hit harder than any threat.
"I won't help you," I said. "If that's what you're thinking."
"I'm not asking for help."
"Good."
"I'm asking you to stay alive."
I folded my arms tightly. "You don't get to decide that."
"I already have," he said.
I took a step back, heart pounding. "You can't keep me here forever."
"I don't intend to."
"When, then?"
"When it's safe."
"For whom?"
"For you."
I shook my head. "That's not your call."
"It became my call the moment you ran toward a man with a gunshot wound instead of away from him."
Something sharp lodged in my chest at that. "That doesn't make me yours."
"No," he agreed. "It makes you involved."
He turned toward the window, looking out over the city as if measuring it. "There are people who would use you to get to me."
"And you think locking me up solves that?"
"I think visibility is dangerous," he replied. "Here, you're invisible."
I scoffed. "Invisible doesn't feel like this."
He glanced back at me. "You'll adjust."
I met his gaze, refusing to look away. "I won't stop trying to leave."
A pause.
"Good," he said quietly. "I'd be disappointed if you did."
That unsettled me more than a threat would have.
He moved toward the door, then stopped. "Eat," he added. "You'll need your strength."
"For what?" I demanded.
He looked back at me, something dark and unreadable passing through his eyes.
"For what comes next."
The door closed behind him.
Locked.
I stood there long after he was gone, staring at the empty space he'd left behind.
There was no record of him.
And now, I was starting to understand how easily there could be no record of me either.