The private hospital room where Monique lay was almost grotesquely luxurious compared to the standard corridors the staff walked through—a wide bed with immaculate white sheets, fresh flowers already arranged in a vase by the service, a wall screen silently broadcasting the day's news.
Even by Spires standards, this was no joke.
Hector sat in the armchair next to the bed, one leg crossed over the other, his suit as impeccable as usual, with absolutely no trace of compassion visible on his face.
"I can see you're in bad shape," he said, "but let's talk about what actually matters. The plan. What exactly happened that night?"
Monique, lying in the bed with a bandage still visible on her temple, felt a cold rage rise in her throat—not new; she had known it forever, that particular frustration of having to answer to this man who never really saw her, only what she could report back to him.
