Chapter 1 - THE LETHAL SEAM
The tension in the library was no longer just about survival; it was about betrayal. Gabriel’s grip on my wrist was surprisingly strong for a man who had been teetering on the edge of death seconds ago. His eyes, dark as obsidian, scanned my face as if searching for a hidden motive.
“Why did you look closer?” he rasped, his voice still ragged.
“I told you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the gun Carmine still held loosely at his side. “My mother worked in a factory. She spent her life dealing with industrial chemicals. That thread… it wasn't medicine. It was toxic.”
Carmine stepped toward the basin, peering at the black, braided cords I had removed. He picked one up with a pair of sterile forceps and held it toward the light. As the fluid drained, the cord didn't just look like thread; it glistened with a metallic sheen.
“This isn't surgical nylon,” Carmine muttered, his face hardening. “It’s treated with silver nitrate and a concentrated industrial polymer. This wouldn't just hold a wound; it would cause systemic chemical poisoning over time.”
Gabriel let go of my wrist and leaned back, his chest rising and falling more rhythmically now. “Dr. Cole was the one who performed the initial surgery,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum. “He was hand-picked by our allies.”
The realization hit the room like a shockwave. Dr. Cole, who had been scrambling to pack his bags under Carmine’s watchful eye, suddenly stopped. His face went ghostly pale.
“It wasn't me!” Cole stammered, raising his hands. “I was told the kit provided was specialized for trauma—high-tensile strength for a clean break! I didn't verify the thread composition because the patient was crashing!”
“Specialized for trauma,” Gabriel repeated, a bitter smirk touching his lips. “Specialized for murder.”
He looked at me again. “You saved my life, maid. But you also just unveiled a conspiracy that reaches into the heart of my own organization. Carmine, take the doctor to the secure wing. I want him interrogated until he gives us the name of the supplier. And you—” he pointed a scarred finger at me— “what is your name?”
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“Elena,” I whispered.
“Elena. You aren't going back to scrubbing floors. You just became my most valuable asset. If you can identify the thread, you can identify the poisoner. And I have a feeling you’ve seen things in this house that I’ve been too blind to notice.”
