Three months.
Three months is ninety-two days. It’s long enough for seasons to bleed into one another, for wounds to scar over, and for empires to be dismantled and rebuilt from their ashes.
The place Dante had chosen for his recovery—or his gilded imprisonment—was a world away from the grime and blood of the chemical plant. It was a high-end rehabilitation clinic nestled in the Swiss Alps, a fortress of minimalist glass and polished stone where the air smelled of pine, antiseptic, and expensive, unspoken grief. The silence here wasn't peaceful; it was heavy, the kind that costs a fortune to maintain.
I didn’t ask for permission to visit. I simply arrived. The security, once the most formidable in Europe, parted before me like a curtain. My name, Elara, or perhaps my new, more fearsome
