A sudden, shrill buzzing tore through the tense silence. Egon pulled a sleek satellite phone from his pocket,
glanced at the screen, and his jaw muscles tightened. "The helicopter's coming early," he announced curtly, standing up abruptly.

His dark eyes studied Stefanie's pale face. "Stefanie, listen to me." His voice was quiet and insistent,
piercing her silent panic. "I want you to go back to Germany. Immediately. Go back to your safe home, to your parents.

You were almost boiled alive in that kitchen. I saw the hooks. I saw the firebox. I can't guarantee your safety here.
Not for another minute." His piercing gaze rested on me. “Sarah and I… we have no other choice now.
We *must* sort this out together. The helicopter takes off in twenty minutes. It will take you *directly to Germany.”

Stefanie stared at him, her trembling fingers clutching her empty coffee cup. She looked at me—at my tormented eyes,
at Sofia’s coin gleaming once more against my collarbone—then back at Egon’s unwavering face.
The horrific image of that kitchen flashed between us: grease-smeared hooks, the roaring heat, the gleaming butcher knives.
A stifled sob escaped her lips. Slowly, deliberately, she nodded; her shoulders slumped in weary resignation.