The curtain was only half drawn when they came in.
Evelyn sat upright on the narrow medical bed, thin gown tied too loosely at the back, her bare feet resting on the cold edge of the frame. The room smelled of antiseptic and recycled air, quiet except for the rhythmic beep of a monitor she wasn’t connected to yet. A nurse had just finished explaining the procedure—neutral, practiced—when the door opened again without a knock.
Three people entered as if they belonged there.
Their clothes weren’t medical. Tailored coats, discreet badges, posture trained to imply authority rather than earn it. One of them smiled at the nurse, a gesture that assumed cooperation. Another glanced at Evelyn with polite detachment, eyes already moving past her toward the chart at the foot of the bed.
“Standard
