Sculpted Ghost

The windshield was a mosaic of shattered glass and my own blood, reflecting a woman I no longer recognized. My lungs burned with the acrid scent of deployed airbags and gasoline, but the physical agony was nothing compared to the sickening realization cooling in my veins. This wasn’t an accident; it was a premiere. For three years, I had lived a life stitched together by Liam Carter’s whispers and Bella Quinn’s blueprints—a meticulously crafted hallucination of trauma and false recovery. Every patient I’d treated and every memory I’d cherished was a script, a narrative designed to mold me into a dead woman's replacement. As the sirens wailed across the harbor, the fog in my mind didn't just lift; it burned away. I wasn't their broken project anymore. I was the psychologist who knew exactly how to dismantle the monsters who built me, and as I crawled from the wreckage, I knew one thing for certain: the Harmony Initiative had forgotten to account for the survivor they accidentally created.