The word yet fits into me like a key.
Doors I did not know I had began to open. Some lead to rooms with windows. Some lead to basements with drains. The weight of him shifts inside my chest. The pulse answers a sum I cannot see.
"Taper now," the woman says.
The tone thins to a hair. The pulse drops. The thing withdraws one layer, then two, like an onion. I ache in every place it touched. My body wants to chase. Jonah's hand tightens a fraction, asking me to stay still.
He draws a clear syringe from a tray and fits it into a port on my line. The liquid inside appears to be clean water. It might be mercy. It might be a knife with better manners.
"This is induction," he says. "You will drift. You can speak if you need to. You do not need to be brave. You only need to be willing."
I look at the glass. The pane gives me only a ghost of myself and the suggestion of another shape behind it. That outline has my breath in its fist. It has my name on its tongue. I can feel both as facts.
"Confirm pre-link metrics," the woman says from the ceiling.
"Stable," Jonah answers. "Subject compliant. No motor agitation."
Compliant. The word sits on my chest like a collar.
The drug raced up my arm like heat from a bath drawn. The ceiling softens. The lights lift away slowly. The voice chooses the exact wrong moment to return. "I am here," he says. "I will not leave you." I want to spit the words out and keep them both. My body chooses for me. It relaxes like a door unlocking. The mesh drinks another tear.
A memory tries to climb onto the altar. I do not let it. It pushes another way. Blood on tiles, teeth against my cheek so hard I tasted copper for days. A hand closing on the back of my neck and pressing until my knees knew the floor as home. The thing at my throat flares. It sees everything I have tried to hold in the dark. It takes none of it away. It makes a map. It writes my name at the bottom like an artist signing a piece. The signature is not mine.
"Stop," I say.
Jonah hears the word, not the reason. He touches my shoulder. "We are here," he says. I nod because he needs me to.
Through the glass, a motion at last. Cassian lifts a hand, neither waving nor reaching. A small acknowledgment that feels like a palm to my throat. I hate feeling owned by a silhouette. "Induction complete in forty," the woman says. "Stand by to disconnect pre-link."
"Hold," another voice answers. A man. Not Cassian. Administrative certainty, the kind that believes doors obey because they should. "Capture an extended curve."
Jonah hesitates. "Subject is saturated."
"Ten seconds," the man says.
The tone steadies at my ear, the pressure behind my sternum narrows to a point, and then threads my heart like a needle through felt. It does not hurt. It claims. The monitors answer with green crescents that climb and fall.
"Name your fear," the voice inside me says.
"Being remade," I whisper. "And liking it."
Warmth spills from the notch at my throat and runs down into my chest in a line. The warmth is not mine. The pleasure that follows is so fine I almost miss it. He is pleased by my honesty. My shame follows like a shadow.
Jonah leans in. "Iris," he says softly. "Look at me."
I try. My eyes find his and slide away like magnets in reverse. The room keeps rotating until the glass is the only actual wall. My own reflection hangs over Cassian's outline, a transparent mask laid across someone who does not wear masks. I think of cutting a hole in the glass with my breath.
"Twenty seconds to induction," the woman says. "Then taper."
Jonah adjusts the drip again. "You are doing well," he says.
Well is a word for dogs and patients. I let it pet me anyway.
The tone shifts. A second frequency enters on a lower path, traveling through a weather front under clear air. It skims my bones and settles in the soft parts. My hips respond with a deep ache where a break once healed incorrectly years ago. My ribs remember the shape of a kitchen counter. The crown of my head feels lifted by a careful hand that will not own its desire.
"Tell me what you see," the voice asks.
"Stairs," I say. It is true before I know it. "Concrete. A light at the top that never warms."
"What is at the bottom?" he asks.
"Water," I say. He lets the picture stand. A long breath later, I feel approval again, measured into me like medicine. It is unbearable, and it feeds me. Through the wall, the administrative voice returns. "Capture complete. Taper now."
"Taper now," the woman echoes.
The tone thins to a wire. The pulse drops. The thing withdraws one layer, then two, like a tide pulling back to show a beach pocked with holes. I ache in every place it touched. My body wants to chase. Jonah's hand tightens slightly, asking me to stay still.
He draws a clear syringe from a tray and inserts it into a port on my line. The liquid appears to be clean water, maybe mercy or a knife with better manners. "This is induction," he says as if blessing. "You will drift. Speak if needed. You don't need to be brave, only willing." The glass holds only a ghost of me and a faint outline behind it, clutching my breath and with my name on its tongue. I can feel both as facts. They comfort and degrade me equally.
"Confirm airway," the woman says.
"Clear," Jonah replies.
He brushes a stray hair away from the mesh and tucks it against my temple with the care of a person who knows where bodies break. The gesture almost undoes me.
The drug climbs up my arm. The ceiling softens, the lights fade. The tone becomes something I could thread into a necklace and wear until my neck forgets its own skin.
"I am here," the voice says. "I will not leave you."
A memory tries to climb onto the altar, but I stop it. It pushes another way, blood stains tiles like ink in water. Teeth press into my cheek, tasting copper for days. A hand grips my neck, squeezing until my knees hit the floor. The world between my hands and face turns white, then thinner than white.
"Stop," I yell.
Jonah hears the word, not the reason. He touches my shoulder. "We are here," he says. I nod because he needs me to.
Through the glass, Cassian lifts a hand, not waving, not reaching. A small acknowledgment that feels like a palm to my throat. I hate feeling owned by a silhouette.
"Induction complete in twenty seconds," the woman says. "Stand by to disconnect pre-link."
Jonah lowers the chair another notch. The room tilts, then corrects. My stomach turns. He murmurs something about breathing into the bottom of my lungs. I do it because someone told me to. I always do. It is the flaw that kept me alive and almost killed me.
"Sleep," he says. The word lands behind my eyes and turns out the light.
I should fight. I do not. I want to take his last word with me into the dark. I want to wake in a world where no one can speak inside my head and tell me what belongs to me.
A thought rises, what if love won't die? The idea hits glass softly. Something responds, but I don't hear it. The drug consumes me. The last thing I feel is an unfamiliar breath at my mouth, as if considering a kiss already taken.
The world loosens around the edges. The chair exhales me like a held breath. Somewhere in the dark, a soft chime marks an immeasurable distance. Voices transform into shapes, which in turn become weight. The weight becomes warmth under my tongue, neither drug nor mercy, just a coin I keep without pockets.
Then nothing.