Kalista noticed Thatcher’s first question at the hospital.

The silence in the grand foyer was absolute. The air felt thick, heavy with the suffocating weight of impending violence.

Kalista slowly, deliberately, turned her head back to face Thatcher. There was no fear in her eyes. There were no tears. There was only a terrifying, abyssal calm. She raised her free hand and elegantly wiped a single drop of blood from her split lower lip, inspecting the crimson smear on her thumb.

Thatcher, emboldened by her silence, raised his hand to point a threatening finger directly at her face. "You listen to me, you stupid—"

He never finished the sentence.

Kalista moved with blinding speed. She struck like a viper, her hand shooting out to catch his pointing hand in midair. She gripped his hand with iron strength, her thumb pressing hard into the back of his knuckles.

Thatcher’s eyes widened in sudden confusion. "Hey—what are you—"

Without breaking eye contact, Kalista violently wrenched his hand backward, forcing three of his fingers bending at a grotesque, unnatural angle.

A sharp, sickening crack severed the silence of the room. It sounded like a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot.

Thatcher’s eyes bulged. A second of delayed realization hit his brain before he threw his head back and unleashed a piercing, agonizing scream. His knees buckled as fire shot up his arm.

Kalista didn't let go immediately. She leaned in close, her face inches from his, her voice dropping to an ice-cold, lethal whisper that only he could hear through his screams.