Pain is the first thing I know.
Not the sharp, clean kind that comes with a wound. This is deeper. Twisted. A dull, dragging weight inside every joint, every tendon, every breath.
I try to move — and immediately regret it. My limbs feel wrong. Heavy. Not mine.
My eyes flutter open to harsh light and a white ceiling that hums just off-pitch. Too quiet. Too clean.
Not the battlefield.
Not the afterlife either. Unless the gods got a corporate sponsor.
A hiss of hydraulics triggers something old in my brain — instinct — and I lurch before I even register the movement.
The restraints bite down across my arms and legs.
Trapped.
A snarl tears from my throat before I can stop it.
“He’s waking,” says a voice. Calm. Flat. Male. Unfamiliar.
Another sound — softer. Steps. Lighter. Measured.
Her scent hits me before her voice.
I freeze.
No. No, it can’t be?—
“Vital signs holding,” she says.
That voice.
Steady.
Clipped.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
“Dr. Sorala,” the man says. “He’s looking at you.”
I know that name.
I know that voice.
And I know that face.
I stare up at her through blurry vision and feel something in my chest tighten like a vice.
My body doesn’t know if it should fight or weep.
“Rynn,” I rasp. It tastes like blood.
She goes still. Just for a second. Barely a blink.
But I see it.
