Earlier that day, Sofia had nearly turned back before entering the building. She desperately needed the job, but unease followed her from the elevator to the kitchen, where Mrs. Lin laid down strict rules.
“No questions. No involvement in family matters,” Mrs. Lin said sharply, handing her coffee. “The child is very sick. Clean his room last. And whatever you see—forget it.”
But when Sofia finally stepped into Noah’s room, dread washed over her.
The temperature was freezing—unnaturally so. The child in the crib didn’t look like a patient. He looked like a victim.
Ashen skin. Hollow eyes. Shallow breaths.
When Sofia touched his hand, it was icy. She adjusted the thermostat, then lifted him—and froze at how frighteningly light he was.
A chemical smell lingered in the air.
She gently rolled back his sleeve and saw them: neat injection marks hidden beneath his arm. Too precise. Too consistent.
Not medical necessity.
Evidence.
Sofia took photos of everything—medications, labels, dosages—just as footsteps approached. She straightened quickly when a sharply dressed man entered and introduced himself as Daniel Ross.
His smile never reached his eyes.