"You can stay," Guillermo Campos said, flicking ash from his cigar onto the Persian rug, "but only if you agree to serve Ingrid as her personal maid." The words landed like a verdict. Katalina didn't flinch. She watched smoke curl up toward the coffered ceiling and counted the tiny irrational shifts in the room—Mrs. Campos's crinkled hand clinging to a handkerchief, Ingrid's shoulders shaking, the ticking of the ornate clock skipping a beat when Guillermo smiled. Ingrid's sobs made everyone soften. That was how they sold it: selfless magnanimity, the Campos brand of charity. Guillermo imagined applause in the boardroom—image management, dynasty stability. He hadn't imagined the smell underneath the sobs. Katalina did. She let the room say what it wanted. She didn't need to answer the ultimatum. She could see the answer already: a smear of shadow behind Ingrid's eyes, a darkness that wasn't simply grief. She closed her real eyes and opened the other. Spirit Vision cut through the lacquered veneers and the perfume. It was always clean, like glass. Color streamed and mapped itself across the people in the room. Gold for Guillermo—money like armor. Pale green for Mrs. Campos—nervous loyalty. A faint, steady pink around the maid—nothing. And then Ingrid. The black didn't shimmer. It clotted. It rolled off her like smoke from a kiln: thick, oily, hungry. It pooled at her wrists and licked up past her jaw. Her lips were