My parents called at 1 A.M. screaming, “Wire $20,000—your brother’s in the ER!” I asked one question… and they dodged it. So I said, “Call your favorite daughter,” hung up, and went back to sleep. The next morning… police were at my door.

Green’s expression didn’t change much. “Now the money. This account information isn’t random. Someone either knows you or knows enough about your family to sound convincing.”

My mind flashed back to the call: my mother’s sobbing voice, my father’s clipped command, the way my stomach had obeyed panic before logic arrived.

Green leaned forward. “We can run a controlled response if you’re willing. You reply to the text as if you’re cooperating. Calm, slow, asking for details.”

My stomach flipped. “You want me to play along?”

“Only with us watching,” she said. “You do not send money. You do not click links. You only ask questions and let them reveal themselves.”

A strange steadiness slid into place. Revenge didn’t have to be loud. It could be careful.

I nodded once. “Okay.”

Green dictated and I typed, thumbs surprisingly steady now.

I can wire it. What hospital? What room? Who’s the doctor?

Then we waited.

Five minutes. Ten.

The silence felt like the caller had evaporated in daylight, like whatever monster existed at one a.m. didn’t survive accountability.

Then my phone buzzed.

Stop asking. Just send. He’s suffering.

No hospital name. No doctor. No room.