The air inside the tower didn't smell like a machine; it smelled like the jasmine perfume my mother used to wear, mixed with the sickeningly sweet scent of rotting vegetation.
I stood paralyzed at the base of the bone-glass staircase. Every instinct I possessed—every ounce of the Grey Flame—screamed that this was a trap, a high-level psychological overwrite designed to shatter my resolve. But my heart, that stubborn, human piece of me, felt a pull so violent it nearly brought me to my knees.
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## Chapter 35: The Maternal Malice
"Mom?" The word felt like a shard of glass in my throat.
She stepped forward, her movement fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to the jagged, mechanical world outside. She looked healthy. The hollow cheeks and the grey pallor of the hospital bed were gone. S
