I stared in horror at my boss, who stood by the overturned car, smoking like a chimney and barely taking a break.

I’d worked as one of Mr. Dart’s assistants at the Dart Corporation for about two years and had seen him in various stressful situations. I’d seen him nervous and irritated, mad as hell, and deaf to the pleas, but this time, something was different. His gnarled, aged face looked drained, as if he’d lost a dramatic amount of weight at once; his already sunken cheeks looked like craters on his yellow, wrinkled skin; and his huge, hooked nose seemed even more pronounced, the mole on it even darker.

Smoke poured from beneath the car’s hood, yet no flames were visible. I tried to keep my distance, watching for any sign of a potential explosion, while Mr. Dart stood just feet from the twisted metal. He tossed the smoldering cigarette butts to the ground without bothering to crush them out with the tip of his leather shoes, and his glassy-eyed gaze, beneath heavy eyelids, was set on something far off along the road. I was certain help would arrive any minute from somewhere out there—police, firefighters, an ambulance. I was particularly hoping for the latter to arrive in time. The car, lying on its crumpled roof, belonged to Darla Dart, the boss’s only daughter and youngest of two children, who had just turned twenty-four. I remembered her birthday party well, as Mr. Dart had instructed me to arrange for a gift to be delivered while he was in his London office. It was a unique piece of jewelry—a necklace with a royal blue sapphire. Perfectly suited to Darla Dart, who had known nothing but luxury in her life. However, the young birthday girl just clucked her tongue and tossed the box aside without opening it. She of course offered me a premium drink—something she knew my salary wouldn’t cover—but I declined. The heiress to the Dart Corporation definitely knew how she wanted to live her life and made sure to live it that way.

The first to arrive on the scene was Mr. Dart, who had canceled a meeting in a neighboring town, followed by me, coming from the central office. Darla was in the car; I could smell alcohol and her sickly sweet perfume. I struggled to get her out, but fortunately, the seatbelts weren’t fastened, and the airbags hadn’t trapped her completely. Mr. Dart forbade me to call anyone, and instructed me to refuse help from anyone passing by. He also insisted I hand over my phone, then glanced meaningfully at his pocket. I knew he carried a gun, so I followed his instructions without question. I extracted Darla from the overturned car, taking care to avoid further damage to her wounded body. Mr. Dart didn’t rush me; instead he simply stood in place, smoking, and staring in the opposite direction, so I could only see his hunched back. I placed Darla a few feet from the car. I thought she could be asleep for how calm her frozen face appeared. An heiress born under a lucky star, hurrying through life, now lying on the cold ground, her stiffening body covered in abrasions and bruises.

I felt uneasy but did my best to hide it. When I noticed the purple spots spreading across her skin, I approached Mr. Dart, gathering all my courage to tell him, but I hesitated, searching for the right words. I knew how much this man, tough and guarded with his emotions, had always loved his daughter. I hardly opened my mouth when he stopped me with a gesture, took a drag on his cigarette, and, without looking me in the eye, pointed up the road.

A man walked in our direction. He wore an oversized, stretched-out hoodie, hanging loosely over his jeans and worn-out sneakers. For a moment, I thought he might be just another employee, but this feeling quickly faded. When he approached—more a boy than a man—he didn’t extend his hand to Mr. Dart, but merely nodded. Mr. Dart nodded back, blowing smoke from his mouth. I paid attention to the young man’s long, bony fingers as they clutched a small, jet-black suitcase. He smiled weakly at my curious gaze and, without introducing himself, walked straight toward Darla. I expected to hear an ambulance siren any minute, so I found it odd that a boy, who seemed to be wearing his father’s hoodie, had appeared out of nowhere instead. I gave Mr. Dart a confused look, but he didn’t notice, so I decided not to bother him with questions, instead, turning my attention back to Darla.

Without a doubt, she was a beautiful woman. Tall and skinny, with shiny, silky hair matted with dried blood. Her small, tender blue dress hugged her figure, exposing her well-cared-for skin, now drained of color. I didn’t know Darla well—actually, I hardly knew her at all—but I’d read about her in newspaper headlines and online publications. The wildest parties, the most expensive alcohol, the fastest cars, the most famous lovers, the most intriguing scandals. But what was Darla really like?

While I contemplated Darla and her motionless body, the young man got down to business. He rummaged through his suitcase, pulled out a scalpel and marker, noted a precise spot on her chest, then made a small incision. The velvet skin yielded to the pressure of his steady hand. After inspecting the cut, the young man removed from his suitcase something that, to me, resembled medical forceps, as well as a bottle of clear liquid. He drenched the forceps in the liquid, pouring out nearly half the bottle’s contents, before lowering them into the wound. Holding his instrument firmly, the young man twisted it as if trying to reach something. He continued, moving it back and forth. Dark blood oozed, staining her dress’s light fabric. I shifted my gaze back to Mr. Dart, but he stubbornly refused to turn toward his daughter’s body. The poor girl was lying on the ground while a nameless boy dug into her scarred chest. I knew that, in the normal course of her life, she would probably never even notice him.

The young man twisted the forceps once more, something crackled inside her chest, and blood splattered across his face. I was sure Mr. Dart heard the sound, yet he still didn’t turn around. I, on the other hand, could hardly tear my eyes away from the young man’s thin, spidery, blood-stained fingers. He cranked the forceps one final time, guiding his hand to the left, then pulled them out with effort. A thin, shiny instrument, like a crab’s pincer, clutched a small object from which burgundy drops fell. The young man shook it slightly, and the strange object let out a brief buzzing sound before falling silent. He brought it close to his eyes and examined it, slowly turning the forceps. Then, he grinned, packed the still mechanism into a separate bag, and stowed it away in his suitcase.

Next, he removed another object from his pocket, no larger than the one he extracted from the wound. There wasn’t a single bump or scratch on its shiny surface, as it looked absolutely new. He opened it and, from over his shoulder, I saw something inside that looked like a tiny coil. He checked something on the mechanism, blew on it, closed it with a click, and poured the rest of the liquid across his hand. Then, grasping the device firmly between his index and middle fingers, lowered it into the wound, which he held open with the forceps. A wave of nausea rolled over me, but I couldn’t look away. After plunging the object inside, the young man wiped away the blood and stitched up the wound.

Once finished, he nonchalantly patted Darla’s bare shoulder as if she were his old friend who dozed off on the sofa during a party. The girl’s body swayed helplessly from his mere touch. Then, the young man pried her eyelids open with his fingers, turned her head to the side, and patted her cheeks. I knew that this girl was Darla Dart, the immediate heiress to her father’s corporation and one of the richest women in the country, but I had no idea if the nameless young man knew to whom the body lying in front of him belonged. I almost blurted that he couldn’t treat Darla like that, but the words froze in my mouth. Meanwhile, the young man kept shaking Darla’s body, though it was no use. I found his efforts not only futile but, more importantly, odd. Suddenly, everything seemed naive to me, even useless.

Darla wouldn’t wake up.

However, before I fully grasped reality, the young man rose to his knees and pressed forcefully on the spot next to the incision. Immediately, Darla’s large, almond-shaped eyes shot open. She sat up abruptly and ran her hands over her head and shoulders. She touched her nose, her lips, her neck, and, apparently not satisfied with her inspection, rose to her feet. She made her way to the car, where her dust-covered purse sat visible through the open door. Darla grabbed it, withdrew a small mirror, and began examining her face, which had more or less regained its color. Her honey brown eyes shone as soon as she realized her beauty remained intact.

Hearing light footsteps behind him, Mr. Dart finally turned around and, upon seeing Darla, stepped over to her. Instead of scolding her or getting angry, he simply hugged her. I could hear Darla chirping cheerfully, but I was so stunned that I couldn’t make out a word. After a moment, she patted her father on the back, released him, withdrew her phone from her purse—which somehow survived the crash—and began typing. Mr. Dart watched his daughter silently. It was hard for me to guess what he could have been thinking at that moment, but maybe it was best I didn’t know. The boss only handed back my phone and instructed me to reschedule the meeting that was supposed to take place tomorrow for the following Thursday. I took my phone and nodded automatically, unable to move, as if I were rooted to the ground.

The young man gathered his tools, rose to his feet, and wiped the blood spatter from his face on his shirt sleeve. He turned around and met my gaze, which I quickly hid. Before being hired, I’d been warned to stay calm in all situations, but I couldn’t have imagined anything like this. The young man cast a glance at Mr. Dart, who headed for his car where Darla was already sitting, admiring herself in the mirror. She had no trace of blood on her face or in her hair, and a blush colored her cheeks. I heard the sound of the car engine.

The young man looked at me again and shrugged, as if guilty. “This wasn’t the first time,” he said in a quiet voice. Then he walked off down the road, back the way he’d come.

I didn’t wait for him to disappear out of sight. Tired and completely lost, I started walking to my car, which I’d parked nearby.