The California sun was bright, but the wind whipping through the San Diego mountains carried a sharp chill.

Aretha stood in the silent, stone courtyard of the ancient monastery. Her thin trench coat offered no protection. She looked incredibly fragile, like a leaf ready to detach from a branch.

She approached Silas Penn, a young novice monk wearing a simple linen robe.

Her voice was weak, barely a whisper over the wind. She didn't ask for a miracle cure. She calmly asked him about the procedures for last rites and how to secure a burial plot on the grounds.

Silas looked at the young woman. Her eyes were completely devoid of life. A deep look of pity crossed his face.

He reached into the wide sleeve of his robe and pulled out a string of polished obsidian rosary beads. He murmured a soft prayer for peace in the afterlife.

Silas held the dark beads out to her, offering them as a symbol of acceptance and death.

Aretha lowered her eyes. She slowly reached out. Her pale fingers, bruised with needle marks from her recent blood draws, trembled as they neared the stones.

Just as her fingertips brushed the cold obsidian, the heavy sound of combat boots slamming against the stone courtyard shattered the silence.

A large, muscular hand shot out from nowhere. The veins on the back of the hand were bulging with rage.

The hand snatched the obsidian rosary right out of Silas's grip, pulling so hard the connecting string nearly snapped.

With a violent swing, the hand hurled the beads at the hard stone floor.

Crack.

The rosary shattered into dozens of pieces, scattering across the courtyard.

Aretha gasped and spun around.

She found herself staring into Kian's bloodshot, furious eyes. He was breathing heavily, his hair a mess, having driven non-stop across the country to find her.

Kian didn't say a single word. He reached up and aggressively yanked a silver St. Christopher medal off his own neck. The metal was still warm from his body heat.

He grabbed Aretha's freezing hand and shoved the silver amulet-a symbol of protection for the living-deep into her palm, closing her fingers tightly around it.

"Don't you dare arrange your funeral," Kian growled, his voice vibrating with a terrifying intensity. "As long as I am breathing, I will not let you die."

Aretha was stunned by his sheer force. She tried to pull her hand back. "Kian, let go. I don't have time left."

The moment she said that, Kian's eyes turned red. The tough exterior broke. He grabbed her thin wrist in a vice grip.

Without asking for permission, Kian dragged her toward the exit of the monastery, completely ignoring the shocked monk behind them.

Aretha was too weak to fight back. She stumbled over the stones, forced to follow his relentless pace.

He dragged her out the gates to his mud-splattered Jeep. Kian yanked the passenger door open, practically lifted her off the ground, and shoved her into the seat.

He leaned over her, his chest brushing hers, and aggressively buckled her seatbelt. His movements were rough, driven by a paranoid fear that she would vanish into thin air.

Aretha fell back against the seat, gasping for air. "Where are you taking me?"

Kian slammed the door shut, locked the doors from the driver's side, and started the engine.

"To find out what the hell is actually killing you," he snapped, throwing the Jeep into gear.

He looked at her, his jaw set in stone. "The diagnosis has too many anomalies. I need a better opinion. I've already booked the top private VIP clinic in California."

The Jeep tore down the mountain road, leaving the ringing bells of the monastery far behind as they sped toward Los Angeles.

The cabin fell into a heavy silence. Aretha stared out the window. The absolute deadness in her heart had been violently ripped open by Kian's refusal to let her go.

Kian tapped his Bluetooth earpiece, speaking in rapid, highly technical medical jargon to someone on the other end, confirming their arrival time.

Aretha's stomach churned violently. She closed her eyes, terrified of what this forced medical exam would bring-a sliver of hope, or the final nail in her coffin.

The Jeep didn't pull up to a standard hospital. Instead, it passed through three layers of heavily armed security gates before entering a hidden, ultra-exclusive villa complex on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

They parked in front of a modern building wrapped in bulletproof glass and sleek metal. On the surface, it looked like a billionaire's retreat. In reality, it was a cutting-edge private laboratory.

Kian unlocked the doors, walked around, and half-carried Aretha out of the passenger seat.

They walked up to the entrance. A red laser scanned Kian's iris, followed by a fingerprint verification. The heavy glass doors slid open, revealing a sterile, white corridor humming with the low frequency of massive servers.

Kian led her to the end of the hall and pushed open a heavy, airtight door.

They stepped into a massive room filled with holographic projectors and complex diagnostic machines.

In the center of the room sat an elderly man with stark white hair. He was strapped into a highly advanced, motorized wheelchair, paralyzed from the neck down.

A neural-link interface was attached to his temples. He was using his brainwaves to manipulate a massive, rotating holographic model of a complex molecular structure.

Hearing the door open, the old man spun his wheelchair around.

When his eyes landed on Aretha's face, a brilliant, sharp light exploded in his gaze.

It was Dr. Julian Cromwell-the absolute titan of global biotechnology.

Aretha gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. This was her former mentor at MIT. The man she had idolized her entire life.

Kian stood behind her, his voice low. "I know you gave up your PhD for that damn billionaire family. It was the biggest regret of your life."

Dr. Cromwell's voice came through a synthetic speaker mounted on his chair. It sounded mechanical, but the raw emotion was undeniable. "You wasted a once-in-a-century scientific mind, Aretha. It is a tragedy."

Aretha looked down at her shaking hands. "Doctor... I don't even have the strength to hold a pipette anymore. I'm dying."

Dr. Cromwell let out a harsh, synthetic scoff. He focused his eyes on the screen, and a highly classified file regarding a synthetic biological virus antibody slid across the monitor toward her.

"We hit a sequencing bottleneck," Dr. Cromwell said. "You are the only person on this planet who can crack the algorithm."

He looked at her intensely. "Join my team. In exchange, this facility will use every piece of technology we have to keep your vital organs functioning."

Aretha's eyes were drawn to the screen. She stared at the bizarre, twisted molecular structure of the synthetic virus. Something about it felt eerily familiar to the pain in her own gut.

Deep inside her deadened soul, the spark of a top-tier scientist ignited. The desire to solve the puzzle flared up, weak but undeniable.

Kian stepped up close behind her. He placed both hands firmly on her shoulders. "If you're going to die," he whispered, "die on your own battlefield. Not in the backyard of some arrogant billionaire."

Those words shattered her hesitation. A massive wave of purpose flooded her veins.

Aretha took a deep breath, ignoring the sharp pain in her stomach. She looked at Dr. Cromwell and gave a firm, decisive nod.

She walked forward and extended her trembling hand, shaking the paralyzed doctor's mechanical arm. A reunion six years in the making.

Dr. Cromwell immediately barked orders through his comms. "Get her to the VIP lab. Full cellular blood screening. Now."

Two nurses in crisp white coats appeared, placing Aretha in a wheelchair and rolling her into the adjacent sterile room.

As the needle pierced her vein and the dark red blood flowed into the vials, Aretha felt incredibly calm. She had a purpose again.

After the draw, the nurse instructed her to wait in the plush leather chairs of the hallway lounge while Kian stayed behind to discuss security protocols. Aretha leaned her head back against the leather, closing her eyes, her brain already running millions of genetic sequences.

Suddenly, Kian marched into the lounge, his laptop screen glowing. "You won't believe what I just intercepted from the Cedars-Sinai public hospital network," he said, his voice laced with disgust. The sound of a highly irritating, fake sobbing echoing from his speakers made Aretha physically nauseous. She slowly opened her eyes. The temperature in her gaze dropped to freezing. Even miles away from New York, the person she hated most was still playing her twisted games.