POV: Emilia Conti
The backlash didn't wait for interpretation.
By the time I reached the car, my name was already moving—quietly at first, then faster. Notifications stacked on my phone without sound, the screen lighting up again and again like a pulse I couldn't slow.
Suspended surgeon.
Federal involvement.
Conflict of interest.
No context. No timeline. Just fragments designed to stick.
Strauss met me at the curb, expression unreadable. "You're trending."
"I assumed I would," I replied.
"Not like this," she said. "Someone pushed the suspension early."
Luciano.
"They wanted it messy," I said.
"Yes," she agreed. "And personal."
The car pulled into traffic. I stared out the window, watching the city slide past—people walking, living, untouched by the quiet dismantling happening in my wake.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Back to the unit," Strauss replied. "For now."
"For now," I echoed.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't anonymous.
It was Maria.
