Itryto run.
But the sound burrows deeper. It pulses against my teeth, my eyes, my lungs. Each breath gets harder. My limbs start betraying me—just little things. A stutter in the right leg. A twitch in my wrist. Like my body’s not entirelymineanymore.
I trip.
Not far. Just enough.
They’re on me before I can lurch back up.
“Let go of me!” I snarl, claws bared, teeth flashing—but I’m slower than I should be.
The darts come next.
Two. Maybe three.
They don’t sting.
Theyblur.
The world slips sideways, like it’s trying to unspool itself, like gravity’s forgotten how to work. The rock under my cheek goes hot, then cold, then... gone.
Everything’s gone.
I wake strapped to a chair.
The overhead light is surgical white. Too bright. Too clean. It hums faintly—notthe fungus hum, but close enough to make me gag.
I’m in one of the expedition labs.
Not the medbay.
A secondary lab.
Worse.
The chair’s wide and padded, meant for containment studies. My wrists are buckled. My ankles too. Not tight—but enough. Enough to say they don’t see me as a threat anymore.
They think they’ve already won.
The room smells like copper and bleach. Underneath that, the telltale damp rot of fungus. It crawls along the air ducts. Creeps under the cabinet seams. It pulses in the corners of my vision.
And then he walks in.
Ciampa.
His gait is steady. His smile—broad, almost beatific. And thecrystals.
Gods.
They grow from his neck like delicate coral, iridescent and soft-looking. A halo of mycelial bloom, glimmering faintly under the light.
He looks like something divine.
He lookswrong.
“You’re awake,” he says softly. “Good.”
I don’t answer. My mouth’s dry, but I clench my teeth anyway.
