The headache hit me like a sledgehammer the moment I stepped back into the house. I pressed my palm against my forehead, trying to ease the pounding that seemed to sync with my heartbeat. The alien visions were still flashing behind my eyelids—those impossible cities, the wars fought with reality-bending weapons, and most disturbing of all, that vast intelligence that had evaluated me like I was some kind of specimen.
"Ryan, you look like hell," Sydney said, her voice cutting through the fog of pain as she guided me toward the living room couch. "Sit down before you collapse."
I dropped into the cushions gratefully, every muscle in my body feeling like it had been wrung out and left to dry. The red stone in my pocket had cooled somewhat, but I could still feel it there, humming faintly with residual energy. Whatever connection it had to that device was real, powerful, and absolutely terrifying.
