Helen turned away from the window. She sat down on the edge of the stiff mattress and grabbed the remote, turning on the small television mounted on the wall.

A local news anchor was standing outside the National Museum in Manhattan. The banner at the bottom of the screen read: Exclusive Private Antiquities Exhibition Tonight.

The screen flashed to a B-roll of the artifacts. Helen's stomach dropped. Her pupils dilated.

Sitting on a velvet pedestal was an intricate, dark wood Lotus Box.

It was her mother's. Alverta had carried it everywhere before she vanished.

Helen dropped the remote. She unzipped her duffel bag and pulled out a heavy, encrypted micro-laptop. She booted it up, her fingers flying across the keys in a blur of motion, bypassing firewalls to access the Dark Web's auction ledgers.

The data loaded. An anonymous donor had transferred the Lotus Box to the museum's underground vault for the night.

Helen knew the truth. Hidden inside the false bottom of that box was the biological key her mother had died trying to protect.

She slammed the laptop shut. She wasn't going to let it sit in a vault.

By midnight, Helen was dressed in a skin-tight, light-absorbing black tactical suit. She pulled a black mask over her lower face.

She opened the guest room window. She slipped out into the cold night air, gripping the copper drainpipe. She slid down the three stories in seconds, her boots hitting the grass without a sound. She vaulted over the estate's stone wall and vanished into the shadows.

At 1:00 AM, Helen crouched on the roof of the National Museum.

She pried open an air vent and dropped into the dark, narrow shaft. She crawled until she reached the main security junction box. She plugged a small, black decryption drive into the port.

Lines of green code raced across her tiny wrist monitor. Ten seconds later, the infrared laser grid in the hallway below flickered and died for exactly three seconds.

Helen dove through the grate, hitting the marble floor in a silent forward roll before the lasers snapped back on.

She moved like a ghost, hugging the blind spots of the security cameras, descending toward the underground vault.

She reached the massive steel vault door. She pulled a pen-sized thermal laser from her belt and pressed it against the electronic lock. The metal hissed and melted. The heavy door clicked and slid open an inch.

Helen slipped inside. The vault was pitch black, save for the faint glow of emergency lights. In the center of the room, encased in bulletproof glass, sat the Lotus Box.

She pulled a diamond-tipped glass cutter from her pocket. As she raised her hand, her ears caught a sound.

A microscopic scuff of rubber on marble. Someone was coming through the secondary service door.

Helen aborted the movement. She melted into the deep shadows behind a towering Egyptian sarcophagus.

The service door swung open silently. Four men in black tactical gear fanned out into the room.

The man leading them was massive. His shoulders filled the doorway. He moved with a heavy, predatory grace that commanded the space.

The faint emergency light caught the sharp angle of his jaw. Helen's eyes narrowed behind her mask.

It was Damian Montgomery. The man she had drugged and left in the dirt.

Damian raised his hand, signaling his men to spread out. He was looking for something, his eyes scanning the glass cases.

Helen cursed silently. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her combat knife.

She had to get the Lotus Box out from under his nose without letting him see her face.

Damian's men moved toward the center display. One of them pulled out a heavy-duty plasma cutter and aimed it at the bulletproof glass protecting the Lotus Box.

Helen knew she had seconds. She reached into one of the small pouches on her tactical belt and pulled out a marble-sized smoke pellet.

She flicked her wrist, bouncing the pellet hard against the far wall near the ventilation grate. It popped with a sharp crack, releasing a thick, hissing cloud of white smoke.

Damian's men instantly raised their suppressed rifles, spinning toward the noise.

In that split second of distraction, Helen exploded from the shadows. She sprinted at the glass case, her laser pen already activated. She slashed it across the glass in a perfect circle. The glass shrieked and popped loose.

Damian whipped his head around. His eyes locked onto the slender figure in black.

"Take her down!" Damian roared. He lunged forward, his massive body closing the distance with terrifying speed.

Helen grabbed the Lotus Box. She sensed the rush of air behind her and violently twisted her torso.

Damian's heavy fist grazed her shoulder. The sheer force of the near-miss sent a shockwave of pain down her arm.

He didn't stop. He threw a brutal, military-style hook aimed at her head. Helen ducked under it, her body moving like water. She used his momentum against him, grabbing his wrist and twisting her hips to throw him.

Damian planted his feet, refusing to go down. He slammed her backward. Helen's spine hit the cold concrete wall with a bone-jarring thud.

Damian pressed his forearm against her collarbone, pinning her. Their bodies were crushed together in the dark. His hot, angry breath washed over her black mask.

In the violent struggle, Damian's heavy hand snagged against a small utility pouch on her belt, tearing the fabric. Immediately, a sharp, distinct scent of crushed pine and raw mountain herbs spilled into the suffocatingly close space between them. It was the exact same homemade paste the girl in the woods had rubbed on his chest.

Damian's pupils dilated. His heart slammed against his ribs. "Jane," he breathed, his voice thick with shock and rage.

Helen's stomach tightened. His senses were too sharp.

She didn't speak. She brought her knee up in a vicious, punishing strike, driving it directly into his wounded abdomen.

Damian let out a choked gasp. The pain was blinding. His grip on her collarbone loosened for a fraction of a second.

Helen spun out of his hold. She ripped a high-explosive flashbang from her vest, closed her eyes tightly, and smashed it against the floor between them.

The vault erupted in a blinding, searing white light.

Damian's men screamed, dropping their weapons to cover their eyes. Damian squeezed his eyes shut, tears of physiological pain leaking from the corners. Blinded, he reached out blindly, his fingers clawing at the air.

He caught a handful of fabric.

Helen didn't hesitate. She slashed her knife downward, severing the piece of her jacket he held.

When the spots finally cleared from Damian's vision, the vault was empty. The glass case was broken. The Lotus Box was gone.

Damian stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hand. His fingers were wrapped tightly around a jagged piece of black tactical fabric.

His jaw locked. The muscles in his neck strained against his skin. "Lock down every block in a five-mile radius," he growled to his groaning men. "Find her."

High above the street, Helen scrambled across the rooftops, the Lotus Box secured against her chest, racing back to the toxic Gallagher estate.

Helen walked into the Gallagher dining room at precisely 8:00 AM. She wore a crisp white button-down shirt and black slacks, her face washed clean of the night's sweat and adrenaline.

Fredy sat at the head of the long mahogany table. When he saw her, he stretched his lips into a wide, entirely fake smile.

"Helen, my dear," Fredy said, his voice dripping with forced warmth. "Did you sleep well? Is the New York air agreeing with you?"

Sylvia sat to his right. She gestured to a maid. "Bring Helen a French omelet. She needs to put some meat on those bones."

Helen didn't look at the food. She pulled out a chair and sat down slowly. Her face was completely devoid of expression.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, yellowed photograph. She tossed it onto the polished wood. It slid across the table and stopped right next to Fredy's plate.

It was a picture of a young Fredy standing next to Alverta Kramer, Helen's mother. They looked happy.

The moment Fredy's eyes locked onto the photo, his fake smile froze. The muscles in his face twitched.

His hand jerked violently. He knocked over his porcelain cup, sending scalding black coffee spilling across the pristine white tablecloth.

Sylvia saw the photo. The color drained from her face, leaving her looking sickly pale. Her eyes darted around the room in panic.

Candice looked back and forth between her parents, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What is that? Why are you acting so weird?"

Helen leaned back in her chair. She crossed her arms. She watched Fredy's panic with cold, surgical detachment.

"It's amazing," Helen said, her voice low and steady. "How easily you sleep in this house. Considering you bought it by selling out my mother's family when the Kramer company went bankrupt."

The words hit the room like a bomb. It was the ugliest, most heavily guarded secret of Fredy's rise to power.

Fredy slammed his hands on the table and shot to his feet. His face was dark red, the veins in his neck bulging. "Shut your mouth!" he roared, spit flying from his lips.

The mask of the loving father was entirely gone, replaced by the cornered, vicious animal he truly was.

Helen didn't flinch. She stared right back at him, her eyes cutting into him like shards of ice. "Screaming doesn't change the fact that you're a traitor, Fredy."

Sylvia jumped up, grabbing Fredy's arm. She glared at Helen with pure hatred. "You ungrateful little bitch! We took you out of the gutter!"

Helen shifted her gaze to Sylvia. "You're just a thief living in a stolen house."

Candice let out a high-pitched shriek of rage. She grabbed her heavy crystal water glass and raised her arm, aiming to hurl the freezing water right at Helen's face.

Helen didn't move to block it. She just looked at Candice.

Helen didn't move, just raised her eyes to meet Candice's. Her gaze was completely dead, devoid of any emotion, as if she were looking at an inanimate object rather than a human being. The sheer, unnatural stillness in Helen's posture, combined with a faint, chilling smirk, made Candice feel like she had just been targeted by a striking viper. Candice gasped, her psychological terror causing the air to leave her lungs. Her wrist went entirely numb with a sudden, overwhelming dread. The heavy crystal glass slipped from her trembling fingers and crashed onto the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.

The dining room fell dead silent. The only sound was Helen's fingernail lightly tapping against the mahogany table.

Helen stood up. She smoothed the front of her shirt. "I've lost my appetite."

She reached over, picked up the photograph, and walked out of the room without looking back.

Fredy collapsed back into his chair. His chest heaved. His eyes narrowed, burning with a dark, calculating malice.