The marrow-station trembled as if the city's bones were grinding against each other. Dust rained from the ceiling; the red glow of Lin's chains lit the cavernous space in a sickly, pulsating rhythm, like the heartbeat of something too vast and too alive to comprehend.
Keller's rifle was trained on Lin's head, finger white on the trigger, yet he hesitated. Min-joon clutched Lin's arm, as though his desperate grip alone could anchor him against the abyss rising inside. And Hwan—calm, smirking, hands folded behind his back—watched it all with the patience of a gambler who already knew the cards.
The kneeling figures were still chanting, but their voices cracked, warped, overlapping as if more than one throat spoke through each mouth. Heir. Crowned. Heir. Their kneeling became spasms. Flesh split, bone grew wrong, tendrils unfurled like roots tearing through stone. The station was no longer a ruin of steel and concrete; it was an altar.
