The light above the surgical table was almost blinding. Maya tried to turn her head, but she couldn’t. Cold metal clamps locked her skull in place. She tried to lift her arms, but thick leather straps kept her wrists pinned to the sides of the table. The air stung with sharp chemicals—and something sweet, too, the smell of deep sleep that makes you forget it all.
“The patient is awake. Give her more of the gray ink,” a cold, familiar voice ordered.
Slowly, Maya opened her eyes. The Architect loomed over her. He wasn’t wearing his gold crown now. He was in a red surgical gown, his face hidden behind a mask made of white bone. In his hand, he held a scalpel. It didn’t look like ordinary metal—it looked like a shard of a broken mirror, reflecting things that hadn’t happened yet.
“Stop,” Ma
