The wind in Manhattan was a physical assault. It whipped through the thin fabric of the stolen hoodie Dejah wore, biting into her skin with teeth of ice. She had found the clothes in a laundry bin near the nurses' station-a janitor's oversized grey sweatshirt and a pair of scrub pants that were too short for her legs.

She had used a bobby pin from the bedside table to shimmy the lock on the window restrictor. It had taken six seconds. The slide down the drainpipe had been harder. Her muscles were atrophied, her grip strength compromised. When she hit the alley floor, rolling to disperse the impact, fire had exploded in her knees.

But she was out.

Dejah kept her head down, blending into the shadows of the alleyway. The hospital loomed behind her, a fortress of white brick and misery. She needed distance. She needed food. She had zero dollars and zero cents.

She turned a corner into a narrower, darker alley, a shortcut that would spit her out near the subway lines. The smell of rotting garbage and stale urine was overwhelming.

"Hey, pretty thing."

The voice was wet, slurred. Dejah stopped.

Five men emerged from the shadows. They were street thugs, smelling of cheap liquor and aggression. They weren't professionals; their stances were sloppy, their centers of gravity high. But there were five of them, and Dejah was running on fumes.

"Nice bracelet," the leader said, pointing to the plastic hospital ID band still on her wrist. In the dim light, the silver holographic strip must have looked like jewelry. "Hand it over. And maybe the sweatshirt too."

He reached out, his hand grasping for Dejah's shoulder. His fingernails were black with grime.

At the mouth of the alley, where the streetlights bled into the darkness, a low rumble vibrated through the asphalt. A car had stopped at the red light. It was a Bugatti Veyron, painted a deep, blood red. The engine purred like a restrained beast.

Inside the car, the world was hermetically sealed. Casimir Vanderbilt sat in the driver's seat, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel. He was bored. He was always bored. The city was a playground he had long since outgrown.

Next to him, his friend Nate was chewing on a burger, grease shining on his chin. Nate pointed a fry toward the alley. "Whoa. Look at that. Five on one. That girl is toast."

Casimir glanced over, his eyes barely flickering. "Not our problem."

"Should we call the cops?" Nate asked, though he didn't reach for his phone.

"Light's green in ten seconds," Casimir said, checking his watch.

In the alley, the leader's hand touched Dejah's shoulder.

The contact was the trigger.

Dejah's body moved, not with strength she didn't possess, but with the ruthless efficiency of physics. She couldn't overpower him, so she used his own structure against him. She grabbed his index and middle fingers, the weakest link in his grip.

Snap.

She twisted against the joint. The leverage required was minimal; the pain was catastrophic. The leader screamed, his knees buckling as he followed the pain down.

Dejah didn't stop. Every movement cost her precious glucose, her vision swimming with black spots. She used his falling body as a shield, pivoting on her left foot. The second man swung a clumsy haymaker. She ducked, the wind of the punch ruffling her hood. She didn't punch; her knuckles were too fragile. Instead, she drove the hard point of her elbow up, straight into his trachea. Soft tissue against bone. He gagged, clutching his neck, eyes bulging.

Casimir, who had been about to look away, froze. He sat up straighter in the leather seat.

The third man lunged. Dejah sidestepped, sweeping his leg at the exact moment he transferred his weight. It wasn't a powerful kick, just a perfectly timed disruption of balance. As he fell, she kicked him in the solar plexus. He curled into a fetal ball, gasping for air.

Two left. They hesitated. Fear is a powerful toxin; she could see it spreading in their eyes.

Dejah took a step forward, suppressing a shudder of exhaustion. They scrambled back, tripping over each other, dragging their fallen comrades away into the darkness.

It had taken seven seconds. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, warning her of imminent collapse.

She adjusted her hood, brushing a speck of dust from the sleeve. She leaned against the brick wall for a split second to steady herself. Physics was the great equalizer. Leverage, velocity, anatomy.

Dejah walked toward the mouth of the alley. The Bugatti was still there. The light had turned green, but the car hadn't moved.

As she passed the passenger window, she looked inside. The glass was tinted, but the streetlamp illuminated the interior.

Nate was staring at her, his burger forgotten in his lap. "Holy shit," he mouthed. "Was that Kung Fu?"

Dejah stopped. She turned her head and looked directly at him.

Her eyes scanned his face. The data flooded in. His skin was flushed a mottled red. His pupils were slightly dilated, but sluggish. There was a distinct swelling around the bridge of his nose-internal pressure.

She tapped on the glass.

Nate rolled the window down. "You... you're a ninja. That was insane."

Dejah ignored the compliment. "Your nasal mucosa is engorged," she said, her voice raspy. "You're breathing through your mouth because your septum is swollen. Your reaction time is lagging by at least 300 milliseconds due to the heavy carbohydrate digestion."

Nate blinked. He laughed, a nervous, barking sound. "What? Is that a threat? I'm sitting in a bulletproof car, sweetheart."

Dejah looked past him to the driver. Casimir Vanderbilt. Their eyes met. His were dark, intelligent, and utterly devoid of fear. He was studying her like she was a puzzle he wanted to take apart.

"It's not a threat," she said. "It's a probability. The intersection ahead has a blind spot caused by the renovation scaffolding. Given your delayed reflexes... bleeding is imminent."

Dejah turned and walked away, crossing the street against the light.

"Crazy chick," Nate muttered, reaching for the radio dial. "Did you hear that voodoo nonsense?"

Casimir didn't answer. He put the car in gear.

He accelerated.

Above them, on the side of a building undergoing renovation, a painter's scaffolding shifted in the wind. A heavy bucket of red industrial primer, left precariously on the edge, tipped.

It fell.

It slammed into the pavement directly in front of the Bugatti.

Casimir slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, the tires smoking. The deceleration force was immense.

Nate, who hadn't buckled his seatbelt after eating, flew forward. Physics took over. His face smashed into the leather dashboard.

He recoiled, throwing his head back. "Ow! Fuck!"

He pulled his hands away from his face. They were covered in bright crimson blood. It gushed from his nose, soaking his shirt.

"Blood!" Nate shrieked. "It's actually blood! Casimir! She's a witch! She cursed me!"

Casimir didn't look at Nate. He looked into the rearview mirror. He watched the small figure in the grey hoodie disappearing down the block.

A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a predator who had just found a new trail.

"Interesting," he whispered.

He spun the steering wheel, executing a perfect U-turn in the middle of the avenue.

The Bugatti rolled up beside Dejah, moving at a walking pace. The passenger window slid down seamlessly. Casimir leaned across the center console, ignoring Nate, who was currently tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose with a fast-food napkin.

"Get in," Casimir said. It wasn't a question. It was a command wrapped in velvet. "I'm buying you dinner. In exchange for the... prediction."

Dejah's stomach gave a traitorous growl. It was a loud, guttural sound that cut through the city noise. Her glucose levels were crashing. She did the math quickly. She had zero calories in reserve. If she had to fight again, she would lose.

She didn't argue. She didn't play coy. She pulled the handle and slid into the backseat.

The interior smelled of rich mahogany and expensive cologne. It was a stark contrast to the garbage juice scent of the alley. Nate turned to look at her, his eyes wide and watery above the bloody napkin. He looked terrified.

Casimir glanced at Dejah in the rearview mirror. "What are you in the mood for? French? Sushi?"

"Meat," Dejah said. Her voice was flat. "Red meat. Large quantities. Now."

Casimir raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. "Carnivore. I like it."

He drove them to a steakhouse in Midtown, one of those places with dark wood paneling and waiters in tuxedos who judged your shoes. When they walked in, the maitre d' took one look at Dejah's stained, oversized hoodie and opened his mouth to protest.

Then he saw Casimir. His mouth snapped shut. "Right this way, Mr. Vanderbilt. Your usual table is ready."

They sat down. Dejah didn't wait for the menu. "Five T-bone steaks," she told the waiter. "Rare. And a pitcher of water."

The waiter blinked. He looked at Casimir for confirmation.

"You heard the lady," Casimir said, leaning back in his chair. "And bring a bucket of ice for my friend's nose."

When the food arrived, Dejah didn't talk. She ate. She cut the meat with surgical precision, stripping the bone clean. She chewed thoroughly, swallowing quickly. It wasn't gluttony; it was refueling. She could feel the proteins breaking down, the iron flooding her blood, the amino acids rushing to repair the damaged myelin sheaths of her nerves.

Her internal system, the "Asclepius" medical module, ran a diagnostic. Energy levels rising to 15%. Cognitive function stabilizing. Neural repair requires higher grade catalysts. She needed specific alkaloids found in rare herbs, or extremely expensive synthesized compounds. The steak was just fuel; she needed medicine.

She touched the pocket of her scrub pants. Empty. She had exactly zero dollars to her name. The fifty dollars she usually kept stitched into the lining of her jeans was back at the manor.

Nate finally removed the napkin. His nose was swollen and purple. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice nasally. "Seriously. Was it magic?"

Dejah wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. "I told you. Anatomy and probability," she said, pointing with her fork. "You were mouth-breathing due to sinus congestion, which reduces oxygenation to the brain. Combined with the post-prandial somnolence from your burger, your reflexes were shot. The construction site was a variable, but your inability to brace for impact was a constant."

Nate stared at her blankly. "I understood 'burger'."

Casimir chuckled. It was a low, dark sound. He pulled a black credit card from his jacket and tossed it on the table. The waiter whisked it away.

"Where to?" Casimir asked. "I assume you have a home, even if you dress like a runaway."

"Kensington Manor," Dejah said.

Casimir froze. The amusement vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating look. "Kensington? You're one of them? The... adopted one?"

Dejah nodded.

"I've heard stories," he said softly. "They say the Kensington spare is a quiet, useless thing. A ghost in her own house."

"Rumors are often inaccurate," Dejah said.

They got back in the car. The drive to the Upper East Side was smooth. Dejah closed her eyes, letting the digestion process work. But her mind was active. She was replaying the sensation she had felt earlier when they passed a small auction house. A specific magnetic resonance.

She opened her eyes. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a small, ugly wooden carving. It looked like a trinket, something a tourist would buy in Bali. But to her, it was glowing with an invisible radiation.

It was ancient Agarwood, treated with a resin that emitted low-level beta waves. For a normal person, prolonged exposure would cause headaches, maybe insomnia. For Dejah, with her hyper-sensitive neurology that was currently misfiring, it acted as a stabilizer. It quieted the static in her brain.

They were pulling up to the gates of the manor.

"Give me the ornament," Dejah said.

Casimir looked at the carving, then at her. "This old thing? Why?"

"To pay for the meal," Dejah lied. "And because it's radioactive. It's slowly poisoning you. But for me... it's medicine."

Casimir unhooked it. He held it out, dangling it from its leather cord. His eyes searched hers, looking for the lie, or perhaps the truth.

"You're a strange creature, Kensington," he murmured.

He dropped it into her palm.

Dejah's hand closed around it. A wave of calm washed over her. The headache she hadn't realized she had instantly vanished.

"Thanks," she said.

She opened the door and stepped out.

The iron gates of Kensington Manor loomed above Dejah, intricate black metal twisted into shapes that were supposed to be vines but looked more like snakes. The Bugatti idled behind her, a low growl in the quiet suburban street.

Standing by the gate pillar was Julian Montgomery. He was pacing back and forth, clutching a bouquet of wilted roses that looked like they had been bought at a gas station. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened.

He looked up when he heard the car door slam. His eyes widened when he saw the Bugatti, then narrowed into slits when he saw Dejah.

"Where the hell have you been?" Julian marched toward her, his face twisting into an ugly scowl. "Jenna has been waiting at the hospital for hours! She fainted, Dejah! She fainted because of the stress you caused her!"

He reached out and grabbed Dejah's wrist. His grip was clammy and desperate.

"You selfish little brat," he hissed. "We thought you ran away. And here you are, hopping out of some sugar daddy's car?"

Dejah looked down at his hand on her wrist. She didn't pull away immediately. She didn't have the strength to fight him directly, but she didn't need to. She stepped in closer, disrupting his center of gravity, and rotated her forearm against the joint of his thumb.

She jerked her arm up. Julian's grip broke instantly. He stumbled back, looking at his hand in shock.

"You... you pulled away?" He looked offended. "You never pull away."

"I'm not donating," Dejah said calmly.

Julian's face turned red. He jabbed a finger toward the tinted window of the Bugatti. "Is that it? You found some rich guy to pay your way so you don't have to save your sister? You're disgusting."

Dejah stepped closer to him. She could smell the stale alcohol on his breath and something else beneath it. She looked at his collar.

"Julian," she said, her voice low. "You smell like her. Synthetic rose and bergamot. And there is a faint smudge on your left collar. It's barely visible, but I can see the pigment."

Julian froze. His hand flew to his neck, covering the spot. "You're crazy. You're hallucinating."

"You say Jenna fainted from stress," Dejah continued, relentless. "But hypoxia from intense physical exertion-like making out in a car with the heat on-can also cause fainting. Were you comforting her, Julian? Or were you celebrating my upcoming surgery?"

"Shut up!" Julian screamed. The embarrassment was too much. He raised his hand, palm open, aiming for Dejah's face.

She didn't flinch. She watched the trajectory of his arm. She calculated the intercept point. She prepared to catch his wrist and use his own momentum to drive him into the pavement.

But she didn't have to.

The driver's door of the Bugatti opened. Casimir Vanderbilt stepped out. He didn't rush. He unfolded his tall frame with a lazy grace, leaning back against the door.

"Montgomery," Casimir said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the pavement like a crack of thunder. "I didn't know the Montgomery family raised men who hit women. That's... disappointing."

Julian's hand froze in mid-air. He spun around. When he saw who was speaking, the blood drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse.

"Mr. Vanderbilt?" Julian's voice cracked. He lowered his hand slowly. "I... I didn't know it was you. I mean... I thought..."

"You thought she was with someone you could bully," Casimir finished for him. He walked over to where they stood. He didn't touch Dejah, but he stood close enough that his presence formed a wall between her and Julian. He draped an arm casually along the air behind her shoulders, a possessive gesture that didn't require contact.

"She is my guest," Casimir said. "Do you have a problem with my guest, Julian?"

"No," Julian stammered. "No, sir. It's just... Jenna... she's sick..."

Casimir laughed. "The piano girl? The one who plays like a robot and smiles like a shark? Please. Spare me the sob story."

Julian looked like he wanted to argue, but the name 'Vanderbilt' was a weight he couldn't lift. The Vanderbilts owned half the city. The Montgomerys just rented space in it.

"I'll... I'll go," Julian mumbled. He shot Dejah one last look of pure venom. "This isn't over, Dejah."

He scuttled to his sedan and drove off, tires squealing.

"Pathetic," Nate called out from the car window. "Total beta energy."

Dejah turned to Casimir. "I didn't need your help."

"I know," Casimir said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card. It had no bank logo, just a single phone number embossed in gold. "But watching him squirm was entertaining. Take this."

"I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity," he said, pressing it into her hand. "It's an investment. I have a feeling you're going to cause a lot of trouble, Dejah Kensington. And I want a front-row seat."

Dejah took the card. She didn't say thank you this time. She turned and walked toward the gate.