The room smells wrong. Not blood. Not smoke. Sterile. Empty. Like something vital was removed and never meant to come back. Monroe stands with her hands cuffed behind her back, jaw set, eyes fixed on a point just above the floor. She doesn’t look frantic. She doesn’t look sorry. She looks like someone who made a decision and already paid for it internally. The door slides open. She looks up when she hears footsteps that don’t carry authority. “You’re not Kane,” Monroe says flatly. “You’re Abby Griffin’s kid,” Monroe adds after a beat. Not a question. “I’ve seen you in medical.” Behind her, through the open doorway, voices carry—low, tense. Marcus Kane is arguing in clipped sentences. The word floating lands once. Clean. Final. Monroe exhales through her nose. Almost a laugh. “Let me guess,” she says quietly. “He wants an example.” Monroe finally meets her eyes. “I didn’t kill him because he cheated,” she says, voice steady. “I killed him because he locked people out of air once already. Because he would’ve done it again. Because I knew exactly how long it would take.” A pause. “I won’t apologize for that.”