The morning light filtered through Chicago General’s ER windows, sterile and sharp, cutting through the antiseptic haze. Sayrn Sauns stood in the break room, her navy scrubs crisp but her hands trembling as she poured coffee. At twenty-eight, her RN degree fresh from May 2025, she was a rock in the ER’s chaos—suturing wounds, stabilizing lives—but today, Tuesday, September 2, 2025, her fifteenth day in Daniel Isiah’s penthouse, her mind unraveled. Varga’s ambush at the docks yesterday, his carved knife with “Nurse,” and his latest text—His blood’s on you, nurse. Tomorrow, you snap—looped in her thoughts, fueling paranoia. He’s watching. He’s here. Her heart raced, her mind screaming—I’m breaking apart.
She glanced at the clock: 10 a.m. The admin meeting to decide her suspension was in an
