Chapter 5

After my first brush with death, I lay in the hospital for two weeks.

Ella never came back. Her assistant sent a bouquet of flowers every day, accompanied by a card that read "Get well soon." No signature, no salutation—as if printed in bulk from an assembly line.

The flowers were gardenias. Not the flowers I liked; they were the ones she liked.

Two weeks later, I was discharged. A ten-centimeter scar remained on my left abdomen; my spleen was gone, and my physical strength had plummeted. The physical therapist said I needed at least three months to return to my previous level.

The very next day, I returned to work.

Not because I was dedicated. It was because I didn't want to stay alone in the guest room of the estate, staring at the ceiling, counting how many times I had died.

When Ella saw me, she simply nodded.

"You're back."

"Yes."

No "How are you doing?" no "Why didn't you take a few more days off?"

She wore a navy-blue suit, her hair pinned up meticulously, busy with a video conference with several executives. I stood in the corner of the office like a potted plant that had been moved back to its original spot.

Everything was as it had been. I still followed her, maintaining a distance of three to five steps. She still said "Thank you" to me with that "polite-to-an-employee" tone. Lucas still appeared on her phone screen every few days, saved under the name "L."

But one thing had changed.

I no longer waited in the kitchen for a minute extra hoping she would appear. I didn't make coffee for her when she worked overtime. I didn't observe what color socks she was wearing today.

I deleted every action that wasn't "work-related" from my behavioral list.

Not out of spite. It was about efficiency.

A tool doesn't need extra functions.

The Houston heat in July was like a steamer.

Lucas got into trouble in Miami—a DUI resulting in a pedestrian’s severe injury, facing potential prosecution. The trial was set for the middle of the month, and Ella decided to accompany him throughout.

"It might take a week," she told me before leaving. "You stay in Houston and keep an eye on the security here."

"Understood."

She glanced at me as if waiting for me to say something else. I didn't.

She turned and boarded the plane.

That same afternoon, the company headquarters held an internal awards ceremony to recognize employees with outstanding performance in the first half of the year.

My name was on the list.

"Kane Redfield, Security Department, awarded the 'Outstanding Contribution Award' for heroic performance during the Panama mission."

The ceremony was in a large conference room on the third floor. The HR Director read my name and handed me a crystal trophy and a bonus check. The applause from the audience was sparse. Most people didn't know me, and those who did only knew me as "Miss Hawke’s shadow."

I stood on the stage alone. A flash went off—the company photographer took a picture.

Then everyone dispersed.

Back at the office, I shoved the trophy into the deepest part of my cabinet. The check was deposited into my bank account; the figure was substantial, but it meant nothing to me. In this world, I had no family, no friends, no place that required money.

The only meaning it had, perhaps, was that after I died, someone could use this money to buy me a decent tombstone.

That night, I drove across the causeway bridge.

The bridge was long, stretching from the mainland to the island district, about ten kilometers in total. The streetlights cast a string of orange halos onto the sea.

I pushed the speedometer to 180 km/h.

Not because I wanted to die. I wanted to confirm that I was still alive.

In Panama, my heart had stopped for a few seconds on the operating table. After waking up, my body was alive, but something seemed to have died completely. Not my emotions, but a hallucination called "the future."

The wind outside the window was howling. The speed limit signs flashed by—60 mph.

I was doing over 110 mph.

The steering wheel felt scorching in my hands.

I remembered what Ella said at the hospital: "Were you doing it on purpose?"

Yes, that time was on purpose. I had intentionally applied for a high-risk mission, intentionally exposed myself during the extraction. Not to make her feel guilty. But to see if, if I were truly dying, she would finally say those words.

She didn't.

This time? This wasn't on purpose.

A sharp curve. I steered, but the road was damp from an afternoon thunderstorm. The tires lost grip.

The rear of the car swung to the left. I counter-steered, but the speed was too high; centrifugal force acted like an invisible hand, pushing the entire vehicle toward the guardrail.

The sound of metal impacting metal. The sound of glass shattering. The sound of seawater rushing in.

Not a suicide.

An accident.

But in those few seconds of fading consciousness, a thought flashed through my brain: If I just sink like this, that wouldn't be so bad.