The sound snaps through the room like a rifle shot. A line splits the reinforced panel from corner to corner. Then another. A web spreads from the point where Rafael’s fist has struck the other side.
I spin around.
He’s on his feet. The shift has taken him, jaw extended, shoulders massive, claws out. His eyes aren’t on the staffer. They’re on me. On my face. On the tears I couldn’t stop.
The force of him rolls through both rooms.
I feel it in the floor first, then in the chair, then in my teeth. The monitors spike, every readout going red at once.
The security officer is already speaking into his comms unit, his voice tight and controlled. “Containment breach in progress, Observation Three. Subject is resonance-active. Requesting immediate suppression.”
Another crack opens in the glass.
“Rafael, stop! I’m okay, I’m not hurt—”
He can’t hear me. Whatever is pouring out of him has swallowed the intercom, the alarms, maybe even my voice. The glass is holding, but it won’t hold long. A shard falls inward and skitters across the tile.
He isn’t trying to get to the staffer.
He’s trying to get to me.
No. Please, no.
“Suppression authorized.” The voice comes through the security officer’s comms. Flat. Immediate.
The hiss starts on Rafael’s side of the glass.
Ceiling vents.
I can see them open, the white vapor descending into his cell.
The gas rolls down from the vents in a pale sheet.
Rafael staggers once, catches himself with one hand against the cracked glass, and fights it. Of course he fights it. Every line of his body has learned what it means when chemicals enter the air.
“Don’t do this,” I say, but no one on my side of the room is listening to me.
His claws scrape down the glass. Four long marks, white against the fractured surface. His eyes stay on mine, furious and terrified and already losing focus.
I step toward him.
The security officer catches my arm. “Stay back.”
“He’s reacting to the gas now,” I snap. “You’re making it worse.”
Rafael’s knees hit the floor.
The sound goes through me harder than the cracking glass did.
He tries to rise again. Gets one foot under him. Fails. His hand slides down the panel until his palm is level with mine, separated by glass, wards, procedure, and a room full of people who will write this down as proof that he can’t be trusted.
His lips move.
I can’t hear him through the alarms.
Then his eyes roll back, and he drops.
The force that filled the room cuts out so abruptly that the silence feels violent.
