Somewhere in the Alcester, in a private hospital, the sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air. A dim, sterile light buzzed above as Lucy was wheeled into the recovery room. Her body was heavy from the anesthesia, her mind still fogged with pain, but her eyes—her eyes burned with something cold and calculating.
The surgery was done.
Her womb was gone.
Her ability to carry a child—gone.
Forever.
The nurse fussed gently with the IV in her arm, checking vitals, and offering a few soft words that Lucy didn't even hear. The moment she was alone again, her hand moved weakly toward the side of the bed, grabbing her phone.
She sent a single message. "We need to talk. Now."
—
Rain tapped against the windows like tiny fingers. Lucy sat curled on a couch, pale and worn but dressed immaculately in a dark silk robe. Her face was a mask—blank, unreadable—but her eyes were alive with fury.
Across from her sat a figure in shadow. Only their voice broke the stillness.
