Her head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed in time with the shard pieces, as if the fragments were trying to speak, to tell her something she couldn't yet hear.
An instinct older than training warned her that the message would demand payment, and her body was already overdrawn.
Around her, A Block lay in a row of medical beds—Faye, Tidwell, Paul, Wes, Junjio—their faces pale, eyes closed, chests rising and falling in shallow rhythm, the faint glow of their Ikonas hovering above them, trembling with residual energy.
Each glow wavered when hers flared, sympathetic yet unable to bridge the gulf between sleep and waking.
The ward was silent save for the hum of machinery and the faint drip of fluid from an IV line, a stillness that pressed against her ears, amplifying the ache in her chest.
