Kitty adjusted her gloves, the scent of turpentine and aged varnish still lingering on her hands after a long night working on a 17th-century oil painting in her tiny studio. Her phlebotomy shift had ended hours ago, but art restoration was where her heart thrived. Exhausted, she barely noticed the black duffel bag sitting by her apartment door until she tripped over it. Frowning, she crouched to inspect the bag. It was heavier than she expected, and a faint metallic scent—too familiar from her day job—hit her nose. Unzipping it, she stumbled backward with a gasp, her pulse quickening. Inside was a severed head, its glassy eyes staring back at her, the skin pale and lifeless. The forensic precision of the cut was unsettling, almost clinical. Her mind raced—was this connected to someone she’d drawn blood from recently? Or worse, was someone sending her a message through her work in restoring forgotten history?