“Yes.”
Her lips press together briefly at the memory. She was there. She heard it through blood and fading breath.
“This just confirms it,” she says quietly.
“It does.”
She walks toward the window, looking out over the city lights below. Charlotte's reflection overlays her expression in the glass.
“He believes you weren’t supposed to lead?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And he thinks he’s correcting that?”
“He does.”
She turns back toward me.
“Then this isn’t about me,” she confirms.
“No,” I answer truthfully. “You’re the leverage. Not the motive.”
Her shoulders square at that.
“Good,” she says quietly.
There’s steel in her voice now.
“I don’t feel hunted anymore,” she continues. “I feel targeted. And that’s different.”
I watch her carefully.
“Hunted means panic,” she explains. “Targeted means there’s a reason. There’s order to it.”
“There is,” I agree.
“I won’t change how I move at the hospital,” she says. “I won’t start questioning every nurse or double-checking every hallway like I’m waiting for something to jump out at me. That’s what he wants. He wants me on edge.”
She meets my eyes again.
“I’m not going to give him that.”
“You’ll be careful,” I insist.
“I always am,” she replies. “But I won’t shrink.”
There it is. Not fear. Choice.
“You’re not moving against him yet,” she notes.
“Not yet,” I answer. “He’s waiting for that.”
“Because he expects you to?”
“He wants a visible reaction,” I explain. “Something he can study and adapt to.”
“And if you escalate now, he’ll change his plans.”
