The air in the sterile chamber hummed with the ghost of a memory. The neutral sensitizer—my masterpiece—had been conceived in the same gutter-press clinic where I had birthed my son alone, the sheets stained with the blood of a bond rejection Justin had carved into my soul.
I had spent years perfecting this cruelty. It was a synthetic neural amplifier, distilled from the rare Southern iron-orchids that Voss’s territories bled into the black market. It didn't heal; it didn't stabilize. It simply peeled back the skin of the mind, sharpening every nerve ending until the brush of a sleeve felt like a blade, and a drop of moisture felt like a brand. I had tested it on myself in the hollow hours of the night, learning the most terrifying secret of the human condition: the body can be trained to
