I can no longer contain myself. My breathing slips into shallow, intermittent bursts.
My mind recognizes the physiological patterns I’m experiencing. Cortisol spike in heart rate and salivatory response. Peripheral vasoconstriction from my hands turning cold. I’m experiencing overload to my sympathetic nervous system.
Logically, I should feel relief. I try to convince myself to. Subject One—no, Sergio’s death had nothing to do with Kys, or my formulation, or my mistakes.
But my body doesn’t respond to the logic. My guilt doesn’t dislodge. It curdles, leaving a cold trail up my arms until it meets the heat in my neck. Warmth and coolness should cancel each other out. Yet nothing returns to normal. Everything feelswrong.
“Now this may very well be an incident ofpsychosis,” Set speaks.
I knit my brows. My entire body trembles.
“But based on the footage Darius sent to me, which we have given to authorities,” Set goes on, “the extraction appeared too exact to be self-inflicted or achieved by any of your subjects.”
Idris’ hands close around my arms in an attempt to perhaps stop my shaking.
Set sends a dry laugh through the speaker. “Unless you hid a surgeon as skilled as me or Idris in your ship, Emira.”
I clear my throat to speak, but my voice is stuck.
“Em,” Idris whispers too loud for my ringing ears.
I can feel him checking my pulse with his hand around my wrist.
“Mirror my breaths, Em.” His low voice sounds more and more urgent by the second, speaking quickly. “Can you answer me, Em? Please?”
Set laughs again. “Idris,” he says. “Slow down.”
I’m ripped from the spiral I hadn’t noticed I was in until now, from the sound of Darius dropping what he was holding with a sudden clink. My eyes take him in, how his breathing slows to something nearly motionless. His gaze narrows toward the speakerphone.
“Em—” Idris starts, but Set’s voice cuts clean, louder and commanding.
“You will maintain composure, Emira,” Set demands. “You are the clinical lead of this trial. Your intellect is required to remain in control of the situation.”
I try for a stabilizing breath. It fractures halfway in. My fingers curl in, nails meeting palm.
Idris steps toward the phone, sounding tense and speaking swiftly. “Father, Em needs a moment. We can continue when—”
“And as I’ve stated, Idris,slow down.” The words rattle in my mind as I close my eyes. “Emira has stayed silent for too long. We must proceed.”
My eyes remain closed as I feel the room spin, as if the ship is sinking sideways, when rationally, it isn’t. Yet my breath stutters. My arms remain cold. My neck much too warm. The temperature imbalance worsens. My body will not return to normal.
I blink my eyes open and see Idris. Concern sits on his face. It doesn’t fit, when I’m used to seeing him smile at me.
My eyes move toward the table, where Darius has gone still in a way that tells me he’s managing something internal as well.
Set’s voice occupies the rest of the room. His tone is measured, leaving little room for anything but compliance. My body responds before my mind can catch up. There’s too much input at once. Too many sensations pulling in different directions.
I start to separate them, out of necessity to continue functioning. The cold in my hands, Idris’ closeness, Darius’ stillness, the weight of Set’s authority—I shove them all into the back of my mind, where the memory of my mother flatlining has stayed for years.
All of those feelings filed away, closed and shut. The effect is immediate. My breath stabilizes. The room feels less intrusive, and I’m more present, staring back at Idris, whose creased browline alerts me to his growing worry.
It is none of my concern.
I school my features as if Set is right in front of me instead of the speakerphone blinking close by.
“Please proceed, sir,” I say evenly.
Set drones on. And I listen as well as I can.
