Reid's POV
White.
Everything was white.
The ceiling. The light. The air—too clean, too still, stripped of anything human. It pressed in on me like silence with teeth.
For a long time, I thought this was it.
That I had finally paid my debt.
That the East River had collected what it was owed.
I waited for ghosts.
For my mother's disappointed eyes.
For Evelyn Gable's quiet accusation.
For the boy I used to be—the one my father had dismantled piece by piece until there was nothing left but an Architect.
But they didn't come.
Pain did.
It tore through me without warning—a jagged, burning pressure in my chest that forced the air out of my lungs. Every breath that followed felt wrong. Sharp. Fragile. Like my ribs had been shattered and put back together by someone who didn't care if they aligned.
I was still here.
Still breathing.
Still trapped.
