“Please hold still," the medic said gently, positioning the scanner over Amber's throat.
Amber sat rigid on the infirmary table, eyes on the frost-rimmed window. Her voice was still hoarse from the field incident. Every swallow burned.
“I just need to run a deeper analysis of your vocal cords," the medic added. “The whistle strain caused minor tissue damage."
“Define 'minor,'" she muttered.
The medic didn't answer. Instead, he tapped the scanner again—and froze.
Raven noticed. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, but the shift in the medic's body language made his posture tighten.
“What is it?" Amber asked.
The medic's eyes flicked toward Raven, then the screen. “Your tissue markers… they're mutating."
“Mutating?" she repeated.
“You're healing too fast," he said slowly. “A
