The scream tore through Daphne Voss's throat before she even opened her eyes, a jagged, animal sound that ricocheted off the peeling walls of her Shoreditch flat. Her chest heaved, lungs burning as if they'd just clawed their way out of icy water. She bolted upright, sheets tangling around her legs like a shroud, and pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. The taste lingered there, bitter, metallic, laced with something floral and deadly. Hemlock.

She stumbled to her feet, the room spinning, neon light bleeding through the blinds from the crypto charts flickering on her monitor. The numbers danced. Bitcoin sat at 62K, Ethereum climbed steadily, and her own altcoin picks from six months ago mocked her in green and red. Six months ago. Her head throbbed, a dull ache sharpening into clarity. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be alive.