Then David inhaled — deep and steady. Colour returned to his cheeks. The glow beneath his skin dimmed to a faint, contained shimmer.
Alive.
Stable.
I stared at Lyra.
Her eyes were still open. Empty. Her chest didn’t rise.
Something inside me cracked open. I let out a gasping sob.
No!
Echo made a sound then — small, broken. Not a scream. A fracture.
The machine wound down, the lights fading as the system sealed itself with a soft, satisfied hum.
Marr exhaled slowly. He placed the APA against David’s skin once more.
We watched as the numbers hit ten—then began to climb.
15. 21. 25.
56L
He smiled.
“Well,” he murmured, stepping closer to David’s gurney, checking the readouts. “That answers that.”
Alan stared at Lyra’s body, his face ashen. “She—she wasn’t supposed to—”
“It was always a risk,” Marr said calmly. “Tragic, of course. But necessary, in the end.”
I couldn’t breathe.
My skin was burning now — not pain, not heat. Power. Awareness. Understanding. I felt it settle into me, into Echo.
Knowledge.
David turned his head slightly, eyes fluttering open. Light flickered behind them — not his own.
Not really.
Because when I looked at him, he looked different. Empty.
This is unnatural.
“Grandad?” His voice came out flat and cold. He sat up before us, pulling off his restraints easily.
“David?” Alan ran to his side.
David looked down at his hands like he didn’t recognise them.
“I am different.”
“You are better,” Alan wept, reaching to hug him, “he fixed you.”
David flinched and shoved him away.
