The silent night blanketed the hospital corridors, dimly lit by the soft glow of hanging lamps. The sharp scent of disinfectant still lingered in the air. In one of the intensive care rooms, Anna lay unconscious, her body frail and pale. Bandages wrapped around the wound on her left shoulder—a scar left by the dagger of Vischa, the woman Killian had almost married not long ago.
Killian stood at the doorway, clad in an oversized hospital staff uniform. Beside him was Andrew—the CIA agent who, for the moment, had adopted the role of Killian’s partner-in-crime, completing their improvised disguise. Fake IDs hung from their chest pockets. Every detail was accounted for.
“This is insane,” Andrew whispered. “This is the first time I’ve ever done something like this.” He added, a hint of nervou
