The air in the cabin was stagnant, heavy with the smell of pine needles, dust, and something sharper—something that smelled like a circuit board burning out. I stood in the center of the living area, my fingers curled around the curve of Damien’s helmet. It felt wrong.
It wasn't just the residual heat of a man who had been wearing it moments before. It was the vibration.
I pulled my hand back, but only for a second, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. It was a rhythmic, low-frequency hum, the kind you feel in your teeth rather than hear with your ears. It felt mechanical, yet disturbingly biological, as if the helmet itself were a living organ, pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn't human.
I didn't want to open it. Every instinct I’d honed over fifteen years—every tact
