The neon sign of St. Jude Memorial flickered through the rain-streaked window of the breakroom, casting a sickly red glow over my half-eaten tuna sandwich

The sweet, chemical vapor coiled around my face like a suffocating shroud. My lungs burned instantly as I inhaled a fraction of the gas, my head spinning with dizzying speed.

Think, Claire! Think!

Panic clawed at my throat, but my nursing instincts fought back against the terror. If I stayed in this metal box, I would pass out in sixty seconds and be dead in two minutes.

I grabbed my heavy woolen coat, ripped it off my shoulders, and jammed it against the top vent of the locker, blocking the hiss of the gas as best as I could. Then, bracing both feet against the back wall of the metal locker, I threw my entire body weight forward.

Crash!

The flimsy metal latch groaned, holding firm.

The air inside was growing thicker, the almond-like scent turning nauseatingly sweet. My vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing across my eyes.

"Come on..." I gritted my teeth, tasting copper in my mouth.

I backed up, pulled my knees to my chest, and launched a violent, double-footed kick straight into the center of the locker door.

BAM!

The metal door buckled outward with a deafening screech of tearing steel. The latch shattered, and the door swung wide open.

I tumbled out onto the tiled floor of the locker room, gasping for fresh air, coughing violently as my lungs fought to clear the residue of the synthetic neurotoxin. My hands scraped against the hard linoleum, drawing blood, but I didn't care. I scrambled to my feet, swaying unsteadily, and bolted toward the exit.

When I burst out into the hallway, the corridor was eerily quiet.

"Rocco!" I choked out, my voice rough and raspy from the gas. "Rocco! Security!"

Heavy footsteps echoed around the corner. I braced myself, raising my hands, expecting another assassin, another trap, another vial of poison.

Instead, Rocco rounded the corner, flanked by two burly guards, their hands instantly dropping to their sidearms.

"Claire?" Rocco’s eyes widened as he saw me coughing, my face pale, clutching my woolen coat. "What the hell happened? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Locker room," I managed to wheeze, pointing a trembling finger down the hall. "Someone... planted the vial. Locked me in. Gas."

Rocco didn't ask questions. He motioned to his guards. "Check the perimeter. Now."

The two guards sprinted past me down the corridor toward the locker room while Rocco stepped closer, steadying me by my elbow. "Can you stand? Can you walk?"

"I'm fine," I said, taking a deep, shuddering breath of the corridor air, letting the chill clear my head. "They tried to frame me, Rocco. They left the poison in my locker and locked the door. If I hadn't kicked it open..."

"They wanted it to look like a suicide or an overdose," Rocco finished grimly, his face hardening into an expression of pure, unadulterated menace. "They knew you were talking to the boss. They knew you were the weak link in their plan."

One of the guards came running back from the locker room, holding a clear plastic evidence bag with a gloved hand. Inside the bag was the small glass vial, its rubber septum punctured.

"Found it on the floor, boss," the guard reported to Rocco. "The vent was rigged with a small pressurized canister of the same synthetic neurotoxin. It would have saturated the locker in under two minutes."

Rocco looked at the bag, then back at me, his gaze shifting from suspicion to absolute professional respect. "You're tough, Claire. Most people would have panicked and passed out in thirty seconds."

"Working night shifts in this city teaches you how to survive," I muttered, wiping a smudge of soot and sweat off my cheek.

Before Rocco could reply, his radio crackled to life with a burst of static.

Rocco. Status.

It was Dominic’s voice—deep, controlled, but carrying an unmistakable edge of razor-sharp tension.

Rocco pressed the comms button on his shoulder. "Boss. We have a situation. Someone tried to take out Claire in the staff locker room. Rigged her locker with the same neurotoxin."

A heavy, terrifying pause hung over the radio channel. When Dominic spoke again, the temperature in the entire hospital seemed to drop.

Is she hurt?

"I'm fine," I spoke up, leaning in toward Rocco's radio. "Just shaken up, Dominic. But they're getting desperate. They know we're closing in."

Get her out of the hospital now, Dominic ordered instantly. Bring her straight to the penthouse on 7th Avenue. Not the safehouse—my home. If they want to play this game inside my city, I'm going to show them what happens when you hunt in a Moretti cage.

"Understood, boss," Rocco said. He looked at me. "Let's go, Claire. The car is waiting in the subterranean garage."

This time, I didn't argue. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my backpack, threw my coat over my shoulders, and let Rocco hustle me through the service elevators down to the bowels of St. Jude Memorial.

The subterranean garage was dim, shadows stretching long across the concrete pillars. A sleek, armored black Mercedes sedan sat idling near the exit ramp, its engine purring with suppressed power.

Rocco opened the rear door for me, and I slid inside into the plush leather interior. The doors thudded shut, sealing out the damp chill of the garage.

As the Mercedes pulled out into the midday traffic, heading toward 7th Avenue, I looked out the tinted window at the towering skyline of the city. I realized something profound: