"Kali, pick up—where have you been?" my phone screams into the water. I yank my head up, water splashing into the tiny studio, and tap the screen with a trembling finger. "Stop. If you keep talking nonsense I'll hang up," I say, voice thin. I press decline. There are three missed calls, twelve voicemails, and an inbox full of red badges. My hand finds the tub rim without thinking. The bathtub smells like stale beer and something sweet I can't name. I lift my wrist and stare. "You're alive," I whisper to the scab. The cut along my palm glows darker for a second, then flattens. Flesh knits. Skin seals. It's fast enough for me to watch the last thread of red vanish like a bad photograph. "That's not possible," I tell the room. I test the spot, then cut my thumb on the metal sink edge. Blood beads, then pulls back into place as if an invisible seamstress is closing it. My phone lights up with a voicemail clip from Jordan Campbell. "Kali, you made a cinematic exit and then a phoenix act on social," Jordan's voice is clipped and loud. "Summit sent the termination notice. Azure says they wash their hands. You're facing a suit for one billion. One billion, Kali. You owe them more than you earned in your whole career." "Jordan," I say. "Stop." "You died in their movie's PR cycle, and they bought the silence back