Under the glaring lights of the live congressional hearing, Arthur slammed forged medical records onto the desk, condemning me as a corrupt doctor who murdered children. My fiancé demanded I sign a confession, deliberately ignoring the black blood pooling in my throat. To buy time until noon for the surviving child's federal protection order to activate, I chose to endure the crushing public abuse in silence. I swallowed the agony of my rapidly failing organs—the direct cost of secretly injecting myself with the lethal VX-8 nerve toxin to keep his crosshairs locked on me. Watching the courtroom clock tick toward the final minute, a violent tremor shook my battered frame. Would my dying body hold out long enough to witness his downfall, or would I bleed out before I could finally whisper, "Time's up, Arthur"?