Elias turned, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and sat there for a while. Hands clasped, elbows on his knees, head tilted low. The pod was quiet—dim light from the overhead strips cast a faint blue across the walls, but it didn't reach the corners. His skin felt cold against the recycled air.
He couldn't stop seeing it.
The way the body came apart. Not just the cut—how clean it had been—but what came after. The silence. The way the heat peeled Randalp down to nothing. The look Vincent had right before the second shard lit. Like he didn't want it to happen. Or didn't know it would.
He pressed his palms together harder.
Colby had once sat across from him, legs folded on the training mat, explaining how his Ikona worked—tracing lines with his finger on the floor, animated, proud. Elias had nodded along, half-understanding the mechanics but seeing how much it mattered to him.
Now that same Ikona had killed someone. Ripped through him like it was wired for it.
