The first time Isla Lin opened her eyes in the Swiss clinic, sunlight washed over pale walls like liquid hope. Two years had slipped past in a haze of chemical amnesia, surgical recovery, and painstaking reinvention. She lay in a bed too large for one person, dressed in a white cashmere robe that smelled of lavender and antiseptic. At her bedside stood Dr. Gauthier, clipboard in hand, eyes warm beneath thick-rimmed glasses.
“Good morning, Ms. Lin," he said softly, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “How do you feel?"
Isla attempted to sit, but a dull ache curled through her ribs. She pressed a hand to her side. “Like I've slept under ice," she rasped, voice unfamiliar in its calm precision. “Where…where am I?"
Gauthier offered a gentle smile. “The E.H. Foundation Clinic, Switzer
