The stench of formaldehyde and rust-laced ozone clawed at Yevna’s throat. Her lungs burned, a desperate, silent plea for air trapped within the vacuum-sealed confines of the body bag. The plastic membrane stretched taut across her face, each panicked expansion of her chest met with unyielding resistance. This wasn't merely suffocation; it was a carefully orchestrated erasure, a final indignity designed to ensure nothing remained. They thought her meek. They thought her gone. Clarity, cold and precise as a winter blade, lanced through the primal terror. The subtle vibration of the chilled slab beneath her back, the distant thrum of heavy machinery – a decommissioning black-site morgue, likely somewhere beneath the city's forgotten industrial sectors. Davorin, ever efficient in his cruelties. Her right hand, numbed but not unresponsive, found the concealed seam in her sleeve. A micro-stitch, almost invisible to the naked eye. Her thumb traced the thread, a practiced motion, until a faint click echoed in the enclosed space. A narrow glint of polished durasteel, no thicker than a credit chip, slid into her palm – her bio-scalpel, ‘Morgenstern’. Not a weapon, but a tool of surgical precision, smuggled past even the most invasive biometric scans. A single, silent act of defiance, planned weeks ago for an eventuality she’d hoped would never arrive. She brought the scalpel’s edge to the synthetic fabric pressing against her chest. No wasted movement. No hesitation. The plastic parted with a faint hiss, a whisper of liberation. Another cut, then another, until the bag split open like a ruptured chrysalis. Icy air, thick with the scent of decay, flooded her lungs. She dragged in a ragged, gasping breath, the taste of survival bitter and metallic on her tongue. Pushing herself up from the slab, Yevna’s gaze dropped to her left wrist. Beneath the pale, clammy skin, a faint azure glow pulsed. A digital read-out, stark and unforgiving, materialized on her forearm, marking her. **14 D 00 H 00 M.** The count had begun. The biometric kill-switch, nestled deep in her spine, activated the moment her heart had faltered. Fourteen days to live. Or fourteen days to make Davorin Cernak regret every single breath he'd taken at her expense. The heavy door to the morgue chamber hissed open. Three figures, clad in municipal sanitation jumpsuits, stepped in. Their visors were down, but the glint of suppressed energy carbines spoke volumes. Not sanitation. Cleanup. Davorin's personal touch. The lead man, bulky and scarred, pointed towards the slab she'd just vacated. “Incinerator unit is prepped. Make it quick.” Yevna didn't wait for them to notice the gaping, empty bag. She moved. A blur of calculated motion, a whisper of a forgotten ghost. The first man barely registered the shift in the air before her open palm connected with the base of his skull, a precise strike to the Cervical 1 vertebra. He dropped, a marionette with severed strings, his weapon clattering uselessly on the concrete floor. The second cleaner, quicker than his comrade, raised his carbine. But Yevna was already closing the distance. Her fingers, fine-boned but powerful, found the pressure points beneath his jaw, near the carotid sinus. A swift, twisting motion, disrupting the vagus nerve. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious before his finger could squeeze the trigger. The weapon discharged into the ceiling, a muffled thud. The third man, his eyes finally registering the impossible, fumbled for a sidearm. Yevna was already there. She didn't bother with a nerve strike this time. A swift kick to the knee buckled his leg, sending him sprawling. Before he could recover, she snatched his comm-unit from his belt. Her fingers danced across the interface, an almost supernatural speed, bypassing encryption protocols with chilling ease. The ghost doctor, the ‘Miracle Hand’ of the underworld, wasn't just a healer; she was a dismantle expert. “Status report. Any issues?” A voice, oily with self-satisfaction, crackled through the comms. Davorin. Yevna adjusted the frequency, tuning into the main channel. She could hear the faint murmur of an entire corporate boardroom in the background. She muted her end, listening intently. “No issues, Mr. Cernak,” replied a different voice, tinny and subservient. “The disposal of… Yevna Morokhov… is complete. All residual evidence eradicated.” A triumphant chuckle, hollow and grating, echoed through the device. “Excellent. Gentlemen, with that unfortunate distraction handled, we can proceed. The Morokhov Heiress, my esteemed board, has finally agreed to discuss terms for a significant investment. My… ex-wife… was always an impediment to that crucial alliance. A meek, useless distraction. Now, the path is clear.” Fury, cold and absolute, coiled in Yevna’s gut. _Meek. Useless._ He hadn't just discarded her; he'd publicly incinerated her reputation to clear his path to the real prize. The Morokhov fortune. Her fortune. Her vision blurred. A searing pain, like white-hot needles, erupted in her spine, radiating outward through her limbs. Her muscles clenched, seizing, a violent tremor shaking her entire frame. The comm-unit slipped from her grasp, clattering on the floor. The neuro-toxin. Even as her ghost doctor skills had prepared her for revival, the insidious poison still gnawed at her, a constant reminder of the ticking clock. Air caught behind her teeth in a sharp, strangled hiss. She braced herself against a cold metal gurney, waiting for the spasm to pass, tasting iron in her mouth. She wouldn't ask for help. She couldn't. Not yet. When the agony receded, leaving her weak but resolute, she retrieved the comm-unit. Davorin's smug voice still droned on, outlining his grand plan, his future built on her ashes. Yevna allowed herself a ghost of a smile, a grim twist of her lips. His future was about to become a vertical plummet. She left the decommissioned morgue, navigating the labyrinthine corridors with an innate sense of direction, a predator emerging from its lair. The air grew cooler, damper, as she ascended. Finally, a heavy steel hatch yielded to her touch, revealing the true face of Vrostad. Rain-slicked streets reflected the garish neon glow of a hundred towering screens. Air-taxis zipped between glass spires, their contrails like luminous scars against the bruised purple sky. The city was a glittering, brutalist jewel, a perfect stage for her resurrection. Her feet, still bare from the body bag, hit the cold, wet pavement. She shivered, not from the chill, but from the raw certainty of her purpose. Davorin Cernak had signed his own death warrant the moment he’d tried to bury her. She would make him pay, in currency far more precious than mere finances. A sudden rumble. A sleek, armored car, black as the obsidian spires themselves, materialized from the rain-swept gloom, cutting off her path. Its advanced anti-grav suspension hissed softly as it settled inches from her. The passenger door swung open with an almost theatrical flourish. Ognjen Ravic, the ruthless casino overlord and the district's most feared fixer, stepped out. A predatory smirk played on his lips, his eyes, sharp as broken glass, raked over her dishevelled form. “Looking for a ride, dead woman?”

Resurrection Protocol