104 "Beyond the Glass and Blood: Where Corporate Greed Feeds a Deadly Conspiracy, a Risen Ghost Shatters a Fake Dynasty, and the Ultimate Vengeance Begins at Dawn"

The digital numbers on the microwave-sized hospital monitor glowed bright red in the dark room: 11:45 PM.

We didn't have much time.

I had stripped off my hospital gown, replacing it with a spare orderly uniform Grace had smuggled in her cleaning cart three days ago. It was a tight fit across my shoulders, but in the dim light of the corridor, it would buy us twenty seconds of invisibility.

Grace stood beside the bathroom door, her hands trembling as she clutched the leather ledger. “Mr. Moretti... Miller won't let us just walk past him. He’s armed.”

“Miller isn't going to shoot us,” I said, pulling a heavy, solid-steel oxygen wrench out of the utility cart Grace had left inside the suite. “He’s going to help us push a laundry hamper down to the service elevator.”

I stepped out into the hallway first, keeping my head down beneath the shadow of a blue surgical cap.

True to Anthony’s orders, Miller stood like a granite monolith a few yards down the corridor, leaning against the wall outside Room 412, scrolling through his phone. When he heard the wheels of the laundry cart squeaking against the tile, he didn't even look up.

“Visiting hours ended hours ago,” Miller droned, his voice flat and bored. “Turn the cart around, orderly.”

I kept my face angled toward the floor, pushing the cart forward until I was standing two feet away from him.

“Mr. Moretti’s suite had an accident with the biohazard waste disposal,” I said, deliberately mimicking the raspy, nasal accent of the hospital’s third-shift maintenance lead.

Miller frowned, finally lifting his head. His eyes narrowed as he scanned my posture, his gaze drifting from the blue cap down to the canvas cart. Recognition flickered in his eyes just a fraction of a second too late.

“What the—” Miller started, reaching for his side holster.

I didn't hesitate. I drove the heavy steel oxygen wrench forward with every ounce of remaining strength in my fractured ribs, catching him squarely in the solar plexus.

Miller wheezed, his breath exploding out of his lungs in a ragged gasp as he doubled over. Before he could recover, I grabbed the back of his collar, slammed his head against the reinforced drywall with a dull thud, and watched him slide unconscious onto the floor.

Grace let out a sharp, horrified gasp, covering her mouth with both hands.

“Quiet,” I panted, pressing my hand against my ribs to stem the sharp spike of pain. I knelt down, unclipped the heavy black leather holster from Miller’s belt, and pulled out the Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol, checking the magazine. Fully loaded.

I tucked the weapon securely into the waistband of my trousers.

“Come on,” I told Grace, grabbing the handle of the laundry cart.

We slipped past the unconscious enforcer, rounding the corner toward the service elevators just as the glass doors at the far end of the hallway chimed.

I looked back.

Stepping out of the elevator, draped in a midnight-black silk coat with her blonde hair pulled back into a severe, elegant knot, Veronica Hale walked toward my room, holding a leather designer handbag like an executioner’s briefcase.