I took out my phone again and typed a quick message to a private courier service I had used for corporate deliveries.

I gave them the hospital address and room number.

I told them to meet me at the side exit near the delivery docks in twenty minutes.

I dressed quickly in my regular clothes, my limbs still heavy from the lingering drugs.

I slipped out of the room, keeping my head down as I navigated the quiet, carpeted corridors of the private wing.

The elevator ride down to the basement was silent.

When the doors opened, the smell of damp concrete and laundry detergent hit my nose.

I walked past the industrial washing machines to the loading dock.

A young man in a grey uniform was waiting beside a unmarked van.

“Are you the sender?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said, handing him the sealed silicone bottle and a stack of cash. “Deliver this to the address on the note. Do not log it in your company’s public system.”

He nodded, slipping the bottle into a padded envelope. “It will be there in an hour.”