In the stunned silence that followed the devastating gunfire at Hayes’s exclusive private school, the world of Los Angeles’s elite—its theater of betrayal and redemption—seemed to hold its breath. News helicopters hovered overhead, their blades whipping the air into a frenzy of urgency, while ambulances raced with sirens screaming against the gathering dusk.

When the first unofficial reports began to trickle in that Steffy Forrester, a paragon of strength and love, had been struck down by a stray round, whispers spread like wildfire across social media. The fashion district plunged into mourning, and the Forrester–Logan–Spencer empires spiraled into grief. Cameras zoomed in on sweat-streaked lawmen cordoning off a bloodstained quadrangle. In an unmarked black SUV, Finn’s white-knuckled hands gripped the wheel. Beside him, Ridge Forrester sat with his brow furrowed in paternal fury. In the back seat, a liaison from the FBI—stern and resolute—unfurled a dossier marked “Eyes Only.”

This was no random act of schoolyard violence. It was the culmination of Luna Nozawa’s unrelenting vendetta. Finn had agreed to a desperate, clandestine scheme: fake Steffy’s catastrophic injuries so convincingly that Luna—the only person with motive and means—would be lured out of hiding and into a meticulously constructed trap.

By the time the sun dipped behind the Hollywood Hills, the Forrester Pavilion outside Los Angeles Memorial Hospital had become a shrine of sorrow. Floral tributes blossomed against wrought iron railings; candles flickered in the gathering gloom. Friends, family, and well-wishers pressed their hands to laminated photos of Steffy in happier days, her smile immortalized in glossy prints. TV crews jostled for the best angles as Brooke Logan wept silently in black lace, with Bill Spencer standing stoically beside her.

Inside the glass doors, a phalanx of orderlies wheeled in a stretcher draped in white. Its occupant, hidden beneath layers of gauze and monitors, was Steffy—or so it appeared. Finn, disguised under a baseball cap and sunglasses, slipped through a service corridor to rendezvous with Ridge and the FBI agent.

The agent spoke in a low, urgent tone: “We have one shot at this. Luna believes Steffy is teetering on the brink. Her death will give Luna the closure she craves. When she appears, we move. You bring her in, we end this.”

Ridge’s jaw clenched. “Are you sure you can sell this?”

Finn’s reply was steel: “Trust me. I’ve seen grief twist Luna’s mind into a weapon. She believes her vengeance is righteous. We give her the kill—then spring the cage.”

As night fell, the trauma ward glowed under cold fluorescent lights. Nurses moved in hushed efficiency, adjusting IV drips and scanning charts. In Room 315, the figure under the sheets lay perfectly still, save for the gentle rise and fall of an artificial lung. A head wound had been meticulously staged, complete with prosthetic blood and hidden incisions. Nurses and doctors, sworn to secrecy, treated the injuries as real.

In a makeshift command post nearby, CCTV monitors blinked with footage of entrances, parking lots, and the sidewalk where Luna had last been spotted. Ridge leaned toward Finn. “She’ll know something’s off if I don’t act the part.”

Finn handed him a forged medical report stamped with the Forrester seal. “Say it straight: critical condition, internal hemorrhaging, no signs of consciousness. Everyone backs you up. Then we wait.”

Meanwhile, Luna moved like a ghost through LA’s underworld, shifting between safe houses. Her burner phone buzzed each night with cryptic texts. Tonight, she dies. Hospital. The trap was nearly sprung.

Draped in a tailored leather jacket, Luna crept through the hospital’s back entrance at 2:17 a.m. She bypassed security with practiced ease. Her pulse surged as she neared Room 315. A lone guard, there mostly for show, barely glanced at her forged ID before handing her a keycard. Luna’s lips curled in a grim smile. She had rehearsed this moment a thousand times.

But when she entered the room, expecting a helpless, dying Steffy, she froze.

There, leaning casually against the wall, stood Steffy Forrester. No wounds. No wires. Her dark hair styled to perfection, brows arched, designer scrubs pristine. A stethoscope hung around her neck like an ironic trophy.

Steffy locked eyes with Luna. Calmly, she stepped forward and closed the door behind her. The lock clicked like a gunshot.

Luna’s throat tightened. This was no mercy killing—this was a trap. Finn’s voice crackled in her earpiece: “Luna, this is your last chance. Step out with your hands up.”

Luna crushed the device in her palm and hurled it against her thigh. Then, seeing the red light of a hidden recording camera, she lunged. The two women collided. Luna’s dagger, hidden in her belt, whistled through the air. Steffy dodged, the blade slicing a shallow cut into her arm. They grappled, stethoscope dangling like a death knell.

In the hallway, Ridge and the agent rushed forward. Luna tore free and bolted down the corridor, Steffy shouting after her, “Luna, it’s over. You lose!”

But Luna’s laughter echoed back—defiant, wild, unbroken.

Hospital screens blared: Code Silver: Active Intruder. Red lights flashed. Magnetic doors sealed. Staff scrambled.

Stephie, bloodied but resolute, limped after Luna. Ridge and Finn split up, one heading for supply closets, the other for the stairwell. The FBI agent barked into his radio: “Block the exits. She’s headed toward the staff wing.”

Luna, ducking into a room labeled Staff Only, used her forged credentials to override the keypad. Inside, shelves of medical supplies offered brief refuge. She tore open surgical packs, snatched chemical vials. Her mission had shifted—from vengeance to survival.

Outside, Finn panted, “She’s in there.”

Ridge stepped forward, shoulder slamming the door. The lock held firm. From inside, Luna’s voice taunted them:

“Come on in, boys. This is where the story ends.”