The cathedral hospital never truly slept.
At 2:47 a.m., the lower pathology wing hummed with the low, mechanical heartbeat of machines and the faint echo of distant bells. Cattleya Vermont moved through the dim corridors like a ghost in her own life—white coat buttoned to the throat, hair pinned tight, expression locked into professional calm.
She told herself she was here for research.
The lie was becoming easier with every passing hour.
The private autopsy room was locked, but the override code her father had given her years ago still worked. The heavy door hissed open, releasing a wave of chilled air that smelled of antiseptic and old stone. A single body lay under a white sheet on the examination table—the informant from the warehouse.
Cattleya pulled on fresh gloves, the snap lou
