The morning light in the research wing was pale, diffused through fingerprint‑smeared glass. Eve slipped into the lab before the bustle began, stacking her folders neatly on Dr. Cross's bench. Her mind replayed last night's gala—how every note had crackled with tension, every applause felt like a heartbeat measured against possibility. But today was about data, not performance.
A soft cough behind her made Eve turn. Dr. Lila Keats stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. In her hand was an official memo stamped “Pending Review."
“I've filed a petition for your suspension," Lila said, voice low but sharp. “PR got wind of the gala photos—apparently someone leaked your backstage help as unauthorized medical assistance."
Eve's heart stuttered. “Unauthorized assistance? I was just
