Seven-year-old Toby Miller pressed his newest crayon sketch against the pale wall of Room 412, filling the very last patch of empty space next to the unconscious man’s bed.

Winter blanketed the estate in thick, heavy snow. Arthur had been officially "missing" for five months.

According to the news feeds flashing across his monitors, the search for the billionaire had officially been called off. Julian Sterling had held a tearful press conference, announcing that the family was seeking a court order to declare Arthur legally dead in absentia.

"Once the judge signs that order, Julian gets the CEO title permanently, and Clara liquidates your personal assets," Sarah warned, setting down a stack of financial printouts.

Arthur was sitting in his wheelchair, staring out the window. "Let them file the paperwork. The higher they climb, the harder the fall."

He had been waging a silent war from his laptop. He had already begun quietly siphoning funds from Julian’s personal accounts, moving millions into untraceable shell companies. Julian was bleeding cash and had no idea who was holding the knife.

"Arthur," Sarah said softly. "It's time for PT."

Arthur sighed and wheeled himself into the converted gym. Marcus was waiting.

"No braces today," Marcus ordered. "Just the bars."

Arthur gripped the steel parallel bars and hauled his upper body up. His arms were corded with thick muscle, overcompensating for his lower half. He hung there, his legs dangling uselessly.

"Focus," Marcus snapped. "Send the signal."

Arthur closed his eyes. He thought about Clara’s lips on Julian. He thought about the mechanic cutting his brakes. He thought about Toby’s drawing.

Move.

Arthur stared at his right foot.

Move.

A sharp, agonizing jolt of electricity shot down his spine. It was so painful it stole his breath, but it was a feeling.

Slowly, incredibly slowly, his right big toe twitched.

Marcus dropped his clipboard. Sarah gasped, covering her mouth.