MY FATHER SOLD ME TO A DEAF MAFIA BOSS FOR $50—THEN I PULLED A BLINKING DEVICE FROM HIS EAR AND DISCOVERED WHO HAD BEEN CONTROLLING HIS EMPIRE

Dr. Naomi Reed took one look at Vincent's bloodstained collar and ordered everyone except me out of the examination room. I expected Vincent to object. Instead, he typed: SHE STAYS IF SHE WANTS.

Naomi's clinic occupied the second floor of a brick building on Chicago's West Side. It smelled of disinfectant and coffee, not money. A heater rattled beneath the window. On the wall hung a child's crayon drawing of a yellow sun.

I placed the tea tin on the counter.

Naomi opened it with gloved hands. The object lay still, its red light extinguished. Under a magnifying lens, she examined its flexible outer shell and a narrow metallic core.

"I can't identify this by looking," she said. "And I won't pretend I can. It could be an improvised electronic implant. It could be something else. What matters is that someone put it in his ear without his informed consent."

She checked Vincent for fever, bleeding, and neurological symptoms, then arranged urgent evaluation with an independent ear specialist and imaging. I appreciated that she didn't offer a miracle cure or reach for more tweezers.

Vincent watched our faces anxiously. I typed a summary so he wouldn't be excluded from the conversation.

Naomi photographed the object beside a ruler, documented its condition, and sealed it in a specimen container. She asked whether we wanted law enforcement involved. Vincent hesitated.

"Someone has already threatened us," I said. "We need evidence that can't disappear."

Naomi agreed to preserve the records and contact an independent forensic laboratory through an attorney. She also insisted Vincent be seen at a hospital immediately if his pain or bleeding worsened.

As she examined his ear, she paused.

"There are signs of repeated irritation," she told me. "This wasn't a one-time injury."

I translated. Vincent closed his eyes.

While Naomi completed her notes, Marco received a call. He stepped into the corridor and returned looking grim. He signed to Vincent. Vincent's expression hardened.

"What happened?" I asked.

Vincent typed: SOMEONE SEARCHED YOUR ROOM. THEY FOUND NOTHING.

The words made my stomach drop. The intruder knew I had taken something.

Naomi gave us copies of the initial medical documentation. Before we left, she caught my arm.

"You look like someone who has been told her whole life that she has no choices," she said quietly. "You do. If you need a safe place that isn't his house, call me."

I almost cried. Instead, I thanked her.

Outside, snow melted into dirty water along the curb. Vincent stopped beside the van and typed: YOU SHOULD TAKE HER OFFER.

"Is that what you want?"

NO. BUT I WANT YOU SAFE MORE THAN I WANT YOU NEAR ME.

I studied him. His reputation filled half the city with dread, yet he was standing on a public sidewalk giving me a way out.

"I'm not staying because I owe you," I said. "I'm staying until we know who's hurting you. After that, we talk about what happens next."

He nodded slowly.

Back in the van, Marco handed Vincent a phone displaying an image from the mansion's security system. Someone had entered my bedroom wearing a maintenance uniform. The person's face was hidden beneath a cap.

But the wristwatch was unmistakable: a gold square face with a cracked blue stone at the edge.