My heartrate feels as if it’s alarmingly increasing from the sound of Set’s voice, just as Darius stands straighter and Idris folds his hands behind his back.
“Sir,” I say as calmly as I can. “Good morning.”
“Tell me, Emira,” Set says, each syllable sounding measured, “did Idris inform you of the incident aboardyour vessel?”
My throat closes. Idris’ shoulders tense. “No,” I force the word past my lips. “He did not.”
There’s a long pause that follows, as though Set is dissecting my answer with a slow blade cutting right through the thick tension in this room he doesn’t even occupy.
“He should have,” he says sternly.
The chill in my spine turns sharper.
Idris lowers his head. “Father, I—”
“Not now, Idris. Emira, you will hear directly from me.”
My fingers tighten around my tablet. I loosen them because I must appear normal, unaffected.
Set inhales, the sound faint over the speakerphone. “Last night,” he begins, “one of your experiment’s subjects was found dead.”
My lungs seize. The air thins. My vision blurs. For a split second, I’m thirteen again, crouched on the cold tiles, my mother’s vitals crashing under my fingertips, all because of a compound that wasn’t as clean as the one I’ve remade.
“Em,” Idris whispers, suddenly beside me. I didn’t sense him moving. “Eyes on my chest, Em. Mirror my breaths.”
I blink hard, shoving the memory back in my mind. My eyes trace the movements of his chest. In—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four.
“The young man’s name was Sergio Cicero,” Set’s voice cuts in.
A sharp ringing fills my ears. But it isn’t from the speaker. It’s inside my head.
My mind brings me to more memories.
I remember Sergio’s intake interview over the phone. He was the first one we took in. Subject One.
We met in person at his apartment before he came to the ship. It was the only place he felt safe, he said. He was desperate for a fix. I was eager to oblige.
I recall his fidgeting hands,his skittish laugh, and how he would wince when we so much as mentioned the word Kys. I promised him I’d heal him from what he’d face.
But now, he’s…dead.
Dead?How?
He must have overdosed. Or destabilized. Or—
“Em,” Idris whispers my name, much closer to me, low and urgent. “Em, listen to me.”
But Set’s voice carries on. “He was found in his quarters. His injuries appeared intentional.”
“Injuries?” My voice barely makes it out.
Set answers plainly, “Someone removed his eyes.”
Darius’ gaze drops. His fingers twitch around the parts in his hands.
Idris closes his eyes for a brief moment—the smallest collapse—before he rebuilds composure.
But I…
