“Excuse me, but your book is wrong.”
The man snorted, “My book is notwrong.”
“It’s missing a name.”
He sighed in utter exasperation and closed his book to meet my unsteady gaze.
“Every name recorded in that book belonged to someone who completed intake upon arrival. Whoever you’re looking for never set foot in this facility.”
My world tilted, and my stomach hollowed out. I gripped the edge of the desk, the cool metal biting into my palms as the room seemed to lurch sideways. How could he not have made it? He was strong, much stronger than I was.
This was supposed to give me answers, not tear the Ground out from under me.
I stumbled out of the library; the corridors stretching ahead in dizzying lines. My legs moved on instinct, but my mind stayed behind—somewhere between the cracked spine of that record book and the space where Willam’s name should have been.
I hugged my arms to my chest, pressing my fingertips into my elbows until it hurt, trying to think. None of this made sense. None of it added up.
A sharp voice broke through the fog.
“Mavis Ashbone.”
I turned, blinking hard as Karina approached from the end of the hallway, boots clicking briskly on the white, panelled tile. Her expression was unreadable, but her hands were gloved and her pace carried a quiet urgency.
“You’re required in the infirmary,” she said, as if she were telling me the weather. “Come with me.”
I opened my mouth to ask why, to protest, to tell her I needed a minute, just one—but the words stuck somewhere behind the tight knot in my throat. Instead, I nodded stiffly and fell into step beside her.
We walked in silence, the hallways narrowing, the air turning sharper and bitterer the deeper we went. A shiver shot up my spine, making me shudder. Rubbing my arms, I studied how fragile they appeared underneath the thin fabric of my tunic sleeves, and how each step seemed to echo louder than it should.
Karina led me through a set of heavy double doors, the smell of antiseptic biting at my nose. The infirmary was pale and spotless, filled with gleaming metal trays and rows of glass vials that caught the sterile light. A healer I didn’t recognize stood waiting, her hands folded neatly, her eyes already on me.
“Lie down, please,” the healer murmured.
“Where are Dr. Sinters and Holcrum?”
“They focus on analysis. I oversee the physical testing.”
My gut clenched.
I exhaled slowly, trembling, forcing my legs to climb onto the narrow cot.
The cot’s frigid surface pressed against my back as I settled, arms folded stiffly over my chest. The healer approached without a word; her face partially masked,eyes sharp and assessing.
I stared at the ceiling—white, segmented panels, each humming faintly with light.
“Left arm, please,” the healer murmured.
I unfurled my arm, swallowing hard as a tourniquet tightened around my biceps. My pulse jumped. The healer’s hands were quick, efficient—swab of cold antiseptic, glint of a needle, a sharp pinch, then a slow, spreading ache.
A slender tube snaked to a strange machine beside me. Inside, the liquid glowed faintly—not the dark red I’d expected, but something pale, shimmering, almost white. My stomach turned.
“What is that?” my voice rasped.
“Purified blood,” she said without looking at me. “Synthesized from your own cellular template. Please remain still.”
“Is that going in me?” I swallowed hard.
“Yes, but first I have to draw some of your blood out. We don’t want you to clot, causing a stroke.”
