Her beauty was not loud, yet it carried an irresistible force. That force did not come from her appearance, but from her sense of measure when she spoke. She knew exactly when to appear vulnerable, when to offer understanding, and how to plant suggestions at precisely the right moment. People believed they were making their own choices, when in fact they had long been led by her hand. And I was always standing behind her, like a piece of furniture, remembered only when I was needed.
By the time I was taken to an underground clinic—one of those unmarked places where Family doctors asked no questions and kept no records—I had already lost too much blood. The attack in the warehouse district came without warning. Three men with covered faces, moving with the precision of trained soldiers. It was obvious they were after me. Under the cold surgical lights, I lay there fully conscious, listening to the clash of instruments, checking again and again that I was still alive. The smell of antiseptic mixed with old blood hung thick in the air.
No one came to look for me during those days.