She crouched behind the couch, phone in hand, and hit record. "—as long as my son is safe, let the diseases come for the youngest," Marine whispered to the photograph, voice low and steady. Ayla's fingers tightened around the phone. The living room lamp threw a rectangle of light across Marine's face. The photograph on the coffee table showed Ayla at twenty, smiling at a graduation no one in this house remembered celebrating with her. "You know what you must do," Marine said. "You promised. You promised for the brand." Ayla kept the phone still. Her other hand found the edge of the couch like a bracing point. "She won't live to twenty-six," Marine continued. "Not if I can keep the story perfect. Not if Laura needs to sit higher." Ayla's thumb hovered over pause but did not move. Her mouth tasted of rust and late-night coffee. "Talk less, play the victim when it matters," Marine murmured. "Say tear and regret, then watch them line up. Eldon does what he is told. Colin wants what he can carry. You must—" "You must what?" Ayla said out loud before she meant to. Her voice was small, an intruder. Marine's head snapped up. Her face put on that practiced blankness, the same face she used for calls with neighbours and volunteers. "Ayla?" Marine's voice changed, soft like a question folded into a mask. "Why are you up? It's late." "I couldn't sleep