Finn moved like a man whose life had been spent learning how to make seconds count. He folded himself into silence, voice low and precise into the secure earpiece. “Alpha teams, positions,” he said. “Bravo, cover the south stairwell. Charlie, vents and roof access. No lights, no sudden moves. We do not engage unless I give the word.”Outside, the hospital’s sterile lights hummed, indifferent. Inside, the rhythm was a metronome for the operation Finn had orchestrated from his office: a chessboard of men and women in dark jackets, radios patched into channels he controlled. Albrecht’s teams moved like ghosts—trained, efficient, chosen for discretion. Finn had insisted on professionals who could be surgical, not theatrical. Tonight, the difference between a surgeon and a butcher would matter.He kept his eyes on the feed of Ruth’s room. The camera was angled just enough to show the bed, the slow rise and fall of her chest, the faint twitch of an IV line—not a thing out of place to anyone

“Tell me what you want—why Ruth?” Finn asked, buying rhythm, buying time.“You were meant to be invisible,” the intruder said. “They wrote scripts. They assumed you’d stay small. I was given an assignment: remove the variable. You became inconvenient. Ruth—her wealth, her reach—she’s leverage. She gets you to dance.”Finn watched the intruder’s eyes for a fissure. There was none. Just a patient arrogance that came from being bankrolled and informed, from knowing someone would cover steps if anything went wrong.“All right,” Finn said. “If you want me to walk out there and hand you whatever you think I have—if you want me to step into the corridor and let you take me away—give me two things first.”The intruder’s brow twitched. “Name them.”“First: you let Ruth stay still and untouched while I move. No harm, no stunts. Second: you come within my sight—no pipes, no corridors where you can vanish. Let me see your face clearly. If you want proof that I won’t give the ledger, I’ll give you