The Bronx tenement smelled of boiled cabbage and damp plaster. It was a smell Aurora hadn't encountered in years, yet it triggered a wave of nostalgia so potent it nearly brought her to her knees.

She dragged her suitcase up the four flights of narrow, creaking stairs. The graffiti on the walls had changed, but the peeling paint was the same shade of depressing beige.

She reached door 4B. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the tarnished brass knocker.

Inside, she heard a cough. A dry, rattling sound.

Aurora's heart clenched. Grandpa.

In her first life, the one that had ended in betrayal and a flatlining heart monitor, Arthur Vance had died just six months after her wedding. He had died alone because Sterling had forbidden her from visiting "that dangerous neighborhood" during an important merger week. She had obeyed. She had sent flowers.

She unlocked the door with the spare key she kept hidden under the loose molding of the doorframe. It was still there.

The doors swung open.

The apartment was small, cluttered with books and old newspapers. Sitting in a worn velvet armchair by the window was Arthur. He looked older than she remembered, his frame frail, wrapped in a knitted cardigan.

He looked up, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Aurora?"

His voice was weak, but his eyes lit up.

Grandpa, Aurora choked out. She dropped her suitcase and ran to him, falling to her knees beside his chair. She buried her face in his lap, inhaling the scent of peppermint tea and old tobacco.

Arthur stroked her hair with a trembling hand. "Child, what's wrong? Why are you here so early? Is... is it him?"

Aurora lifted her head. She wiped her eyes. "I left him, Grandpa. I signed the papers. It's over."

Arthur didn't look sad. He didn't ask about the money or the penthouse. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

Thank God, he whispered. "I never liked his eyes. Too shiny. Like a shark."

Aurora laughed through her tears. "Yeah. Like a shark."

She stood up and went to the small kitchenette. She automatically filled the kettle. "I need to crash here for a bit. Just until I get on my feet."

This is your home, Rory, Arthur said. "Always."

She brought him a cup of tea. As she handed it to him, she casually checked his pulse. Weak but steady. He was just old and tired. And cold.

The apartment was freezing.

The heater broken? she asked.

Oil is expensive this year, Arthur mumbled, looking away.

Aurora's jaw tightened. She looked around the dimly lit room. This man had raised her when her parents died. He had sold his car to pay for her coding camp when she was twelve. And she had let him freeze while she bought Sterling's silk ties.

Never again, she vowed.

I need to work, Aurora said.

There's... there's some money, Arthur said. He pointed to a loose floorboard near the radiator. "My burial fund. About five thousand."

Aurora froze. "Grandpa, no."

Take it, he insisted. "You need a start. Don't argue with me."

Aurora looked at him. She saw the pride in his eyes. He wanted to help.

I'll take it, she said. "But consider it an investment. I'll pay you back with interest."

She retrieved the tin box. Inside were stacks of wrinkled twenty-dollar bills. Five thousand dollars.

She took out three hundred dollars and placed it on the kitchen table.

This is for oil, she commanded. "I'm calling the delivery company right now. Do not argue."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes stopped him.

Aurora took the remaining cash-four thousand seven hundred dollars. It wasn't much. To Sterling, it was a dinner bill. To her, it was a seed.

I'm going out for an hour, she said. "I need to visit the bank."

She walked six blocks to the nearest branch with a cash deposit ATM. She deposited the money into an old, dormant account she had kept hidden from Sterling. As soon as the digital balance updated, she pulled out her phone.

She navigated to a trading platform app she had just downloaded.

She pulled up the stock market data. The trends were cascading down the screen.

She remembered this week. In her past life, she had watched these numbers from the sidelines. She knew exactly which pharmaceutical company was about to fail its FDA trial tomorrow morning.

Vanguard Pharma.

She didn't just short the stock. That wouldn't yield enough with her limited capital. She navigated to the Options chain.

She bought deep out-of-the-money Put options expiring tomorrow. They were dirt cheap because the market expected the drug trial to succeed. The leverage was insane. If the stock crashed as she knew it would, these options would explode in value by 1000% or more.

She hit Execute.

Order Filled.

She walked back to the apartment, her heart racing not from fear, but from the thrill of the hunt.

What did you do? Arthur asked when she returned, seeing the fierce look on her face.

I'm robbing the rich, Grandpa, Aurora said, opening her laptop to secure the neighbor's Wi-Fi. "Legally."

By tomorrow afternoon, that $4,700 wouldn't just be doubled. It would be a war chest.

You look scary when you type, Arthur noted, sipping his tea.

I'm not scary, Aurora said. "I'm just... focused."

She pulled a sleeping bag out of the closet and unrolled it on the floor.

Take the bed, Rory, Arthur protested.

No. I like the floor. It keeps me grounded.

She lay down, staring at the cracked ceiling.

Sterling was probably popping champagne right now. Elias Thorne was probably running a background check on her.

Let them come.

Aurora Vance was back online.

The "Iron Fist" boxing gym in Queens was a cathedral of sweat. It smelled of unwashed wraps, leather, and the distinct metallic tang of blood. Hip-hop blasted from blown-out speakers, vibrating the floorboards.

Aurora paid the fifteen-dollar day pass with a twenty from Arthur's stash. The guy at the counter, a retired heavyweight with a nose that had been broken three times, looked at her slender frame and grunted. "Don't break a nail, princess."

Aurora didn't respond. She walked to the lockers, changed into a pair of worn leggings and a loose t-shirt she had found in her old suitcase.

She wrapped her hands slowly. The ritual was calming. Over, under, through the fingers, secure the wrist.

She approached the heavy bag.

She threw a jab.

It was weak. Her form was perfect-shoulder rotation, hip snap, extension-but the power wasn't there. Her muscles had softened during her three years as a trophy wife. The fight in the alley had been pure adrenaline and leverage; here, against the dead weight of the bag, her lack of conditioning was painfully obvious.

She gritted her teeth. Again.

Thud.

Again.

Thud.

She fell into a rhythm. Sweat dripped down her forehead, stinging her eyes. The pain in her muscles was good. It was real. It meant she was alive. She focused on technique, on the snap, knowing that power would return in time.

Half an hour later, the gym door opened.

A young man walked in. He was out of place. He wore designer compression gear-Under Armour, but the expensive line. His sneakers were pristine white. He had the confident swagger of someone who had never been punched in the face.

Julian Reed. Elias Thorne's nephew. The family playboy.

Aurora recognized him immediately. In her past life, Julian had hit on her at a charity gala while Sterling was in the bathroom.

Julian scanned the room, looking for a trainer. His eyes landed on Aurora.

He paused. He watched her strike the bag. He appreciated the curve of her waist, the sweat glistening on her neck.

He walked over, putting on his best charming smile.

Hey, he said, leaning against the pillar next to her bag. "You're hitting that thing like it owes you money."

Aurora didn't stop. Jab. Cross. Hook.

It does, she said, panting.

Julian laughed. "I'm Julian. I don't think I've seen you here before."

I'm busy, Aurora said.

Julian wasn't used to rejection. He stepped closer. "Come on. Let me buy you a protein shake. You look like you could use the calories."

Aurora stopped the bag with her gloved hand. She turned to face him. Her expression was deadpan.

And you look like you're about to injure your wrist if you hit the bag with that stance, she said, gesturing to his hands.

Julian blinked. "Excuse me? I've been boxing for two years at Equinox."

Equinox isn't a boxing gym. It's a spa with punching bags, Aurora said. "Your wrap is too loose on the thumb. You'll sprain it on a hook."

Julian's ego flared. He was being lectured by a girl in thrift store clothes.

Is that a challenge? Julian grinned. "Tell you what. I'll hit this bag harder than you ever could. If I do, you have dinner with me. If I don't… well, that won't happen."

Aurora rolled her eyes. She began to unwrap her hands. "I don't date children."

I'm twenty-five! Julian protested.

Like I said. Children.

Julian stepped up to the bag. He wanted to show off. He wanted to impress the pretty girl with the sharp tongue.

He wound up for a massive right hook. He put all his weight into it, his form sloppy, his thumbs slightly protruding because of the loose wrap.

He swung.

CRACK.

The sound wasn't the bag. It was his wrist.

AHH! Julian screamed, clutching his hand to his chest. He doubled over, his face turning white.

Aurora sighed. She picked up her water bottle.

Told you, she said.

She walked past him toward the locker room.

Wait! Julian gasped, tears in his eyes. "Help me!"

Ice it. Elevate it. Go to the ER, Aurora called back over her shoulder. "And tell your Uncle Elias that hiring family is a liability."

Julian froze, forgetting the pain for a second. "How do you know my uncle?"

Aurora didn't answer. She disappeared into the locker room.

Julian sat on the dirty gym floor, cradling his swelling wrist. He fumbled for his phone with his left hand. He dialed a number.

Uncle Elias? Julian whined.

What is it, Julian? Elias's voice was crisp, impatient.

I'm at the gym. I think I broke my wrist. And… I met a crazy woman. She predicted it. She knew who you were.

There was a silence on the other end.

Describe her, Elias said.

Small. Brown hair. Eyes like… I don't know, like she was looking through me. She called Equinox a spa.

Elias let out a sound that might have been a sigh.

Go to Queens General, Elias commanded. "I will send Graves to check on you. I have meetings."

You're not coming? Julian asked, hurt.

No, Elias said. He wasn't going to drop everything for a sprained wrist. "But Julian?"

Yeah?

If you see her again… do not engage.

---

Chinatown was a sensory explosion. Dried seahorses in jars, hanging ducks, the smell of ginger and sulfur. Aurora navigated the crowded sidewalks with ease. She needed ingredients. Her body was weak, and standard vitamins weren't enough. She needed a tonic to boost her qi and accelerate muscle recovery.

She ducked into "Chen's Herbal Apothecary," a narrow shop stacked floor-to-ceiling with wooden drawers.

Outside, the black Maybach idled at the curb. Elias sat in the back, pressing his fingers against his temple. The headache was back, a blinding white agony that made his vision blur.

Sir, Graves said from the front seat. "We need to get you your medication. The pharmacy is blocks away."

Stop here, Elias gritted out. "Get... something. Anything for pain."

Graves hesitated, then nodded. He jumped out of the car and ran into the nearest shop-Chen's Apothecary.

Inside, Aurora was inspecting a bin of dried ginseng when Graves burst in.

I need painkillers! Graves shouted at the bewildered shop owner, Mr. Chen. "Strong ones. Now!"

Mr. Chen blinked. "We have herbs. No pills here."

Graves looked frantic. He knew his boss was incapacitated. "Herbs then! Whatever works for a migraine!"

Aurora glanced past Graves, through the shop's glass front, to the Maybach idling at the curb. She could see the silhouette of Elias slumped against the window, his posture rigid with pain. She stepped closer to the door, her eyes narrowing as she studied the tension in his neck, the way his hand was clamped to the side of his head.

"Is the pain a sharp, stabbing sensation behind his left eye?" Aurora asked, her voice cutting through Graves's panic. "And has he been consuming large amounts of coffee lately?"

Graves spun around, recognizing her. "You. The woman from the alley. How do you know that?"

"Answer the question," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"Yes," Graves admitted, desperate. "The headaches have been crippling him for weeks. And the coffee... he drinks it by the gallon. How can you possibly help?"

Mr. Chen looked confused, reaching for a random jar.

That's ginseng, Aurora's voice cut through the panic. "It will raise his blood pressure and make the migraine worse."

She turned back to the counter, her mind already processing the symptoms-a classic case of liver fire rising, exacerbated by stimulants. She grabbed a piece of brown wrapping paper and a charcoal pencil from the counter. She began to write furiously.

Corydalis Yanhusuo.

Ligusticum Wallichii.

White Peony Root.

Licorice.

She wrote the measurements in grams. Precise. Dangerous if unbalanced.

She ripped the paper off and shoved it into Graves' hand.

Give this to Mr. Chen, she ordered. "Tell him to brew it. Three cups of water boiled down to one. Drink it hot. It tastes like dirt, but it will stop the pain in twenty minutes."

Graves looked at the paper, then at her. "Why should I trust you?"

Because your boss is currently suffering from a vascular constriction in his brain, Aurora said calmly. "And because I don't have time to watch you kill him with ginseng."

Do it, Graves decided. He handed the list to Mr. Chen. "Please. Hurry."

Mr. Chen took the list. He whistled low. "Old recipe. Very strong. Who is girl? She is master?"

Just brew it, Graves snapped.

Aurora picked up her own basket of roots. She paid Mr. Chen quickly while the old man was weighing Elias's cure.

She walked out of the shop. As she passed the Maybach, she didn't look inside. She kept walking, disappearing into the crowd.

Inside the car, Elias watched her retreating figure through half-closed eyes. The pain was blinding, but his mind was still recording.

She was here. Again.

Graves returned minutes later with a thermos of dark, pungent liquid.

She wrote the recipe, sir, Graves said apologetically. "I... I didn't know what else to do."

Elias took the thermos. He smelled the bitter earthiness.

She wrote it? Elias whispered.

Yes, sir. In Mandarin characters.

Elias hesitated. It could be poison. But the pain was a living thing eating his brain.

He took a sip.