The questions keep coming.
Then—
Noise.
Pain slams back into my chest like a car wreck. My ribs feel crushed from the outside and detonating from the inside at the same time. Air rips into my lungs like ice water poured into hot glass and I gasp.
The world snaps into place around me.
Ceiling. Lights. Cold table under my back. The sting in my arm where the needle hit the vein. The sharp, blinding ache behind my right eye.
I choke on a breath and open my eyes.
The left eye sees the room in harsh, sterile focus. The right sees nothing coherent. Smeared light and shadow, a haze of brightness blooming at the edges.
I blink and the bloom resolves. First into shape, then into intent.
There, in the far corner of the procedural room, stands the same figure Talon described. Its scythe glows with that same strange, erasing light.
I breathe in.
Breathe out.
My perception is binocular, stronger on the side where I induced vulnerability. The ischemia did exactly what I predicted. The retina took the damage and in doing so became a better receiver. Somehow.
“I see it,” I croak.
Cassian’s face swims into view above me, lines of tension carved into his brow. “Yeah?”
He follows my gaze to the corner. “It looks like a person.”
“It does,” he replies.
On the table beside me, Talon shifts and turns his head with effort, one eye cloudy, the other sharp. “Thank fuck you’re alright, man,” he whispers. “That thing’s been staring at you the whole time. I tried talking to it but it doesn’t want to talk.”
“They never do,” Cassian says.
I push past the pain in my chest and the throbbing behind my eye and let the most important conclusion lock into place once more.
Grim Reapers exist.
I let my head fall back against the table and stare at the ceiling, feeling my worldview rearrange itself piece by piece.
“This changes everything,” I mutter.
I close my left eye for a moment and test the right. The vision through it is damaged but functional, distorted contrast, slight central blur, shapes ringed with halos. The Reaper, however, remains in perfect, razor-edged focus. I open my left eye again and the image softens slightly, like adding a layer of mist in front of a floodlight.
Interesting.
I turn to Talon. “Any headache?”
“Yeah,” he croaks. “Somewhere between a hangover and getting hit by a car. You?”
“Same. But if it were painless I’d be more worried about the extent of the damage.”
He stares at me, then laughs weakly. “You’re fucked up, Doc.”
“Maybe. But so are you.”
