“And you,” I went on. “You’re a master obstetrician. You saw the label under those lights. You knew it was Pitocin. And you said nothing—you let her try, just to break my pride.

That’s not malpractice. That’s attempted murder by proxy. A jury is going to hear every second of it.”

Whatever was left in him came apart. He let out a guttural, mindless sound and pulled a rusted box cutter from his pocket, lunging—but he never got past the guards.

They had him flat on the concrete and the blade kicked away into a drain before he’d fully risen, and I hadn’t so much as stepped back.

Harrison arrived at a run from the elevator bank, his coat flaring, and drew up short only when he saw I was untouched, the guards already zip-tying Preston’s wrists.

He scanned me for injuries, jaw tight, then looked down at the man pinned on the ground.