If I had eaten, I would have vomited. My body hadn’t caught up with what my mind already knew.
Marr had jabbed a wire into my side. Two syringes were attached to it—one pumping something into my veins, the other draining me dry. I watched my blood spiral away through clear tubing and tugged uselessly at my restraints.
“Stop,” I growled. “Please.”
Marr only hummed, soft and content, like this was the happiest day of his life.
Across from me floated Echo.
Her chest rose, but not with breath—only with the churn of the fluid around her.
Something in her gaze felt delayed. Wrong.
The warped, childlike version of me was suspended in a tank of cloudy fluid, her small body limp. Her eyes were open—forced open with tape. She watched me. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move.
She was wired to a machine identical to mine, the same tubes threading into her body. Between us stood a device that drew our blood together, swirling it in a slow, obscene spiral.
The room tilted. I swallowed hard, fighting the darkness creeping at the edges of my vision.
Marr opened the door and called out into the corridor. A tech appeared, pushing a gurney.
A boy lay on it. Fourteen, maybe younger. Unconscious. An oxygen mask covered his face.
Beside him stood Alan Starling—member of the Council of Light. A friend of my father.
“Are you sure about this?” Alan asked, his voice tight. “David is so young.”
“The younger the better,” Marr replied mildly. “Your grandson will be fine. Better, I imagine.”
Marr pulled out a file. “David Starling. Aged fourteen. Preliminary APA places him at 10L, correct? Mediocre power stores.”
Alan shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not his fault. There was a genetic defect on his mother’s side—”
Marr shook his head. “No. He is perfect.”
Marr pulled out a handheld APA and held it against the boy’s skin.
The machine whirred, then beeped.
“10L.” Marr confirmed. He showed Alan, who looked away in embarrassment.
He smiled faintly. “I promise you, Alan—if I am right—little David here will be looking exceptional by the end of the day.”
“So what now?” Alan swallowed. “How do you…?”
“That is not your concern,” Marr cut in smoothly. “However, I will require a signature. Confirmation of payment.”
He shoved a folder into Alan’s hands.
“If he dies,” Alan said hoarsely, “you won’t get a penny.”
Marr inclined his head. “Understandable.”
I swallowed hard. “Mr Starling. Mr Starling—you know me, right?” I rasped.
Alan turned toward me as though he were being forced to acknowledge my existence—and it irritated him.
He met my eyes. For a moment, it felt like I was staring straight into his soul.
