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.

The walk up the driveway felt longer than usual. The gravel crunched under Dejah's sneakers-cheap canvas shoes she had found in the garage months ago. The manor stood against the night sky, a monument to excess and bad taste.

She reached the massive double doors. She pushed. Locked.

She knocked. Silence.

She waited.

Finally, the side door-the service entrance-creaked open. Mr. Henderson, the butler, stepped out. He was a man who had perfected the art of looking down his nose, even though he was shorter than most of the guests.

"Miss Dejah," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Mrs. Kensington has given strict instructions. After 6:00 PM, you are to use the servants' entrance."

Dejah checked her watch. "It's 6:05."

"Rules are rules," Henderson said, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Just because you've been out gallivanting doesn't mean you've earned the front door privileges."

Dejah stepped toward him. Henderson didn't move. He expected her to beg. He expected the old Dejah.

She focused. She let the mask slip. She didn't touch him. She just projected.

It's called Sakki in the East-Killing Intent. It wasn't magic; it was a biological broadcast. She dilated her pupils, dropped her chin, and focused her gaze entirely on his carotid artery. She visualized the blade entering, the spray, the gurgle. The micro-movements of her facial muscles and the shift in her pheromones signaled 'predator'.

Henderson's smile faltered. His eyes widened. He took an involuntary step back. His hands started to shake. He couldn't explain it, but his lizard brain was screaming at him that he was standing in a cage with a tiger. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees. He struggled to breathe.

Sweat broke out on his upper lip. "I..."

The front door clicked and swung open. Kathryn stood there, her face a mask of fury.

"Henderson! What is taking so long? Let the ungrateful girl in!"

Henderson practically collapsed with relief. He scrambled aside, bowing low. "Yes, Madam. Sorry, Madam."

Dejah walked past him. She didn't blink.

The foyer was blindingly bright. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Kathryn stood in the center, arms crossed.

"You have some nerve coming back here," she hissed. "Jenna is suffering because of you."

"I am not her organ farm," Dejah said quietly.

Kathryn gasped. "We fed you! We clothed you for fifteen years!"

"You fed me scraps and clothed me in hand-me-downs," Dejah corrected, looking around the opulent hall. "While you bought Jenna a Steinway."

Kathryn opened her mouth to scream, but stopped. She saw Dejah's eyes. The same coldness that had terrified Henderson made her pause. She felt it too-the shift in the power dynamic.

A maid came down the stairs, carrying a pile of Dejah's clothes-her few t-shirts and jeans.

"Since you want to act like a stranger," Kathryn said, regaining her composure, "you can sleep like one. The Sterling family is arriving tomorrow. Their patriarch needs the guest suite on the second floor. Your room."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

Kathryn pointed a manicured finger upward. "The attic. The storage room. It fits you better."

Dejah looked at the maid, then at the stairs leading up to the dusty, uninsulated attic. A slight smile touched her lips, invisible to them. The attic had the only skylight access to the roof. It was exactly what she needed.

"Fine," she said.

She didn't argue. She didn't cry. She took the clothes from the maid and walked past Kathryn.

The attic was perfect. It was isolated. It had a skylight that opened onto the roof. It was the perfect staging ground for a ghost.