The night air still clung to her coat by the time Aira slipped through the side gate of the Laurent estate.
No one was awake—or if they were, they made no attempt to intercept her.
Her steps were soundless on the marble as she moved through the halls. The estate was vast, echoing with a silence she hadn't quite grown used to. It no longer felt like a stranger's home, but it didn't feel like hers either.
Not yet.
She paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing once toward the faint glow under the kitchen door. Someone, probably a night staff member, was making tea. She didn't interrupt.
Instead, she climbed to her room, the wooden floor beneath her bare feet cold and grounding.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Aira locked it out of habit.
Only then did she finally allow her breath to tremble.
She dropped her bag carefully onto the bed and peeled away her cap, coat, gloves—layers of anonymity. The chill of the night still lingered in her skin, but her fingers moved with steady purpose.
She opened the hidden compartment beneath her sleek, travel-styled bag and drew out a matte-black folder, flipping it open to reveal several dried Glacier Bloom petals.
A single vial lay nestled between them, frosted and glowing faintly blue.
"Pure," she murmured, voice hoarse. "Thank the stars."
With a gentle touch, she sealed the samples into a temperature-regulated case and stowed it inside a hidden panel of her wardrobe. Her fingers brushed against the silver insignia engraved within: C—a single, swirling character.
Dr. Caelum.
The name had never existed on paper. Only in whispers. Only in results.
There was no face attached to the miracle-working doctor who had saved warlords, diplomats, and dying billionaires. No one could confirm where she lived or how to contact her. No digital trail, no records.
Only a codename and a legend.
She hadn't started out wanting to save lives. She had started out trying to save one—her grandmother's. The system had failed the woman who raised her. So Aira built her own.
Medicine had always been a language she understood instinctively. Herbs, chemistry, anatomy—it all clicked. She saw symptoms like puzzles waiting to be solved. And sometimes, she solved them with methods that made conventional medicine look outdated.
But it wasn't just talent. It was obsession. Obsession forged in grief.
And now, the same obsession had brought her the Glacier Bloom—a near-extinct herb that could neutralize neural collapse when synthesized with the right stabilizers.
Aira sat at her desk, glancing at the star-shaped note from Evander peeking out of the memory box.
She didn't open it.
Not yet.
Her eyes drifted to the window.
Somewhere across the city, she had felt it—that flicker of attention. Like someone had seen through the shadows. Like eyes had followed her even after she vanished.
She didn't believe in fate. But she believed in instinct.
And something told her… she wouldn't stay invisible much longer.