And Iattack.
Not the drone. Not the sim.
Kael.
I grab him by the chest rig andslamhim into the dirt. Sand sprays. He chokes, eyes wide.
“Whoa—Draykorr?—!”
I’m on him, knuckles raised, ready to strike. The edge of a roar in my throat.
But he doesn’t fight back.
He just stares.
“Hey,” he breathes. “You’re not there. You’rehere. Sim’s off. Look.”
My chest heaves. The world swims.
And I see it.
His hands raised. No weapon. The sim paused. Frozen.
I back off.
Shaking.
He scrambles up, panting, brushing sand off his rig.
“Damn,” Kael mutters. “Guess I found out which button not to push.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
My hands are trembling. My body’s steel, but mymind—my mind is fractured glass.
The locker roomreeks of ionized sweat and sterilizer.
I sit on the bench, head low, towel clenched in my hands.
I can’t breathe right.
I can’tseeright.
I don’t want pity. Or analysis. Or whispered words behind glass walls.
I want tocontrolit. Toownit.
To never lose myself again.
Footsteps echo down the hall. Light. Precise.
Rynn.
I know it’s her before she speaks.
She pauses at the edge of the row.
“Your neural sync logs flagged an anomaly.”
