The air in the Grand Imperial Ballroom hung thick with lilies and forced conviviality. Anja, dressed in a sleek, charcoal gown that felt more like a costume than clothing, clung to the periphery, her gaze fixed on Stefan Volkov. He moved through the glittering crowd with a practiced ease, a titan amidst lesser mortals, his movements betraying no hint of the instability that plagued him. He hadn't acknowledged the burner phone, or her, since she'd found it tucked into her medical kit an hour before they departed, a silent, stark instruction from Dimitri. Stefan’s laugh, when it rang out across the polished marble, was a rich, confident sound, utterly at odds with the fragile state of his nervous system. He was a master illusionist, she thought, and tonight, she was his unwitting assistant. Her designated role as 'Dr. Zelenko, Stefan’s personal physician' felt like an absurd charade. People offered polite, curious smiles, but her social anxiety, a constant phantom limb of her past, tightened her throat. Every interaction felt like a performance, every glance a judgment. She yearned for the quiet sterility of her clinic, for the honest work of mending broken things. Stefan was speaking with Rurik Pavlensky, a legislator whose jowly profile and booming voice were fixtures of the city council. Anja stood near enough to catch the measured barbs exchanged beneath polite nods. Then, a new figure stepped away from a knot of financiers. Kirill Kovacs. The pharmaceutical magnate had built his empire on hostile takeovers and quiet settlements. He walked with measured poise, his mouth pressed into a thin smirk. “Volkov, always commanding the floor,” the executive drawled, offering a manicured hand. Stefan took it without flinching. “Kirill,” Stefan replied evenly, though his posture stiffened. “Enjoying the evening?” “As much as one can, watching certain assets turn erratic,” the man countered, casting a pointed glance at Stefan’s knuckles. The jab landed cleanly. Stefan’s expression did not waver, but his fingers turned white against the crystal flute. He held Stefan's gaze for another second before turning on his heel and rejoining the crowd. Anja scanned the perimeter, her fingers brushing the emergency phone in her pocket. The anonymous warning remained sharp in her memory: 'You're not the first doctor he's hired. Watch your back.' Her eyes snagged on a familiar figure near the opulent buffet table, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Dr. Miroslav Belinsky. Her former mentor leaned over the mahogany buffet, his silver hair sharp under the chandeliers, deep in low discussion with Kovacs. Miroslav in conference with Kovacs, after that display? She watched as the pharmaceutical mogul leaned close, mouth moving briskly, while Belinsky nodded once, his profile stern. When she caught Miroslav by the cloakroom pillars, she kept her tone flat. “Miroslav, I didn’t expect you tonight. I noticed you speaking with Kirill earlier.” Miroslav smiled, an easy, patronizing gesture. “With him? No, Anja, you must have seen someone else. I haven’t entertained that man in years. Always pestering my research fellows.” His gaze drifted over her shoulder, completely detached. The night wore on, the alcohol flowing, the music swelling. Stefan, ever the consummate host, was engaging a small group of journalists, his voice projecting an aura of control and confidence. Anja kept a discreet distance, her gaze never truly leaving him. He was discussing the latest quarterly earnings of his media conglomerate, Volkov Holdings, gesturing with a hand that had, moments earlier, shown the faintest tremor. Suddenly, Stefan faltered. His fingers resting against a marble plinth began to twitch in irregular spasms. The focus slipped from his gaze as his weight rocked slightly off balance. Glasswalker’s Tremor was seizing his motor control, threatening to expose his unraveling nervous system to the press. She had seconds. The metallic clutch at her side held the neuro-stabilizing agent, but delivering it in the middle of a ballroom was nearly impossible without exposing them both. Pavlensky stood three paces away, engrossed in argument. Anja pivoted into the path of an approaching waiter. Catching the edge of the lacquered tray with her forearm, she sent a flight of champagne stemware crashing into Pavlensky’s wool dinner jacket. Shattering glass echoed across the parquet floor. “Pardon me! Please, forgive my balance,” Anja gasped, stepping between the startled guests with linen napkins in hand. While the politician sputtered in outrage, Anja crowded past Stefan. His skin looked gray, fine beads of perspiration tracing his hairline. Shielded by Pavlensky's coat, she extracted the pre-loaded micro-injector from her purse. She pressed the tip flush through Stefan’s sleeve into the deltoid, releasing the plunger before anyone turned back. Stefan gave a minute jerk, then steadied. She stepped away, maintaining her apologetic posture beside Pavlensky. Within thirty seconds, the spasms in Stefan's fingers abated, his posture locking back into place. The doused dignitary stalked toward the washrooms, cursing under his breath. Anja stood upright and met Stefan’s stare. His gaze held steady on hers, stripped of condescension, marked by a silent nod of acknowledgment. Hours later, as they were leaving the ballroom, Dimitri, a silent shadow as always, fell into step beside Anja. He didn’t look at Stefan. He simply pressed something small and cold into her hand. A burner phone, sleeker than the last. “For your protection,” he murmured, his voice low, his eyes sweeping the opulent hall. “From everyone.”

A Ghost at the Feast