Flashback
The last time Raven saw her brother alive, his eyes were glassy from too many pills and not enough hope.
She had burst into his apartment after the third unanswered call, already bracing for the worst. The air had reeked of sweat, vomit, and the artificial sweetness of cherry cough syrup. Gabriel had been sprawled on the couch, the TV blaring static, a needle cap glinting on the carpet.
“Jesus, Gabe,” she had whispered, kneeling beside him. “Why?”
His lips had moved, but only a breath had come out. A sound like “sorry” or “sunlight.” She never figured it out.
The ambulance had taken twelve minutes. He died in nine.
She’d made a vow that night, on the cracked tile of his bathroom floor with a sob lodged in her throat. She would burn the system that buried him. Expose the net
