Something is catastrophically, irreversibly wrong.
I take a step forward, my sneakers squeaking against the cold stone floor.
"Cyprian?"
He does not respond.
I take another step.
"Hey. What's going on? Why is it freezing in here?"
Still nothing.
The silence is suffocating.
I move closer, my eyes adjusting to the dim emergency lighting from the hallway. And that is when I see it.
His left arm.
It is not slate-gray.
It is not warm.
It is completely, utterly calcified.
Gray stone. Rigid. Frozen against his chest like a grotesque sculpture.
And his veins—the amber crystalline veins that glow when he is aroused, when he is happy, when he isalive—are dark.
Not flickering.
Not dim.
Dark.
Like someone cut the power.
My chest tightens.
"Cyprian," I say again, my voice sharper now. "What happened? Are you—"
"Do not come closer."
His voice cuts through the room like a blade.
Cold.
Flat.
Utterly devoid of warmth.
I freeze mid-step.
He still has not looked at me.
"Okay," I say slowly, my heart pounding. "Can you at least tell me what's going on? Because you're kind of freaking me out right now."
Finally, he moves.
