It touched Shivis's skin.
Cold.
Not sharp at first—just pressure, firm and exact. Then the injector pierced deeper, and the sensation changed all at once. A sharp sting flared, spreading fast, like ice breaking inside his arm.
His breath hitched.
The machines reacted immediately. The hum around him deepened, growing louder, vibrating through the chair and into his bones. Lights along the walls shifted from white to pale blue, then steadied.
"Hold still," Dr. Mira Hale said calmly.
Shivis tried.
The substance inside the injector moved.
Not like liquid. Not like solid. It felt thick, slow, as if it resisted entering him. A heavy pressure spread from the injection point, crawling up his arm, into his shoulder, pressing inward instead of outward.
His fingers curled against the restraints.
The smell in the room changed.
Metal. Ozone. Something faintly sweet, like burned sugar.
"Heart rate climbing," Lina said, eyes on her screen.
"I see it," Dr. Hale replied. "Continue."
The pressure reached Shivis's chest.
For a moment, his vision dimmed at the edges. The ceiling lights blurred, stretching into soft lines. A low ringing filled his ears, drowning out the machines.
Then—
Pain.
Not sharp. Not sudden.
Deep.
Like something was settling into place where it didn't belong.
Shivis gasped, chest pulling against the restraints. His breath came fast now, shallow, scraping his throat. Sweat broke out across his skin, cool and immediate.
"Stay with us, Shivis," Lina said, closer now. He could hear her voice clearly, grounded, cutting through the noise.
His pulse thudded hard in his ears.
The ringing faded.
Silence rushed in.
Not quiet—empty.
The machines were still running. He could see the lights, feel the chair, smell the air. But inside his head, something had cleared too completely, like a room emptied too fast.
Then the silence bent.
A pressure formed behind his eyes.
No words.
No voice.
Just the unmistakable feeling of being noticed.
The monitors spiked.
Dr. Hale's posture changed—just slightly. Enough to notice.
"That's not—" she began.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Then twice.
Shivis's body went rigid.
The restraints tightened automatically, responding faster than any human could. His muscles locked, jaw clenched hard enough that his teeth ground together. The pressure behind his eyes swelled, spreading outward like a slow wave.
"Level spike," Lina said sharply.
Dr. Mira Hale stepped closer to the main display. Lines and symbols scrolled too fast to read, graphs climbing and falling in jagged patterns.
"That's impossible," she said. "Baseline hasn't stabilized."
The hum of the machines deepened again, rougher now, uneven. The air felt charged, prickling against Shivis's skin. His vision blurred, then snapped back into focus, too sharp—every edge in the room suddenly clear.
"Power index just crossed Threshold One," Lina said.
Shivis sucked in a breath. It felt heavier than air, like breathing through water.
"Threshold what?" he managed.
Dr. Hale didn't look at him. "Implanted Shards don't usually register levels this early," she said. "Most hosts stay dormant until exposure."
"Exposure to what?" Shivis asked, voice strained.
"Arenas," Lina answered. "Residual zones. Conflict. Pressure."
Another spike flashed across the screen.
"Second surge," Lina said, slower now.
Dr. Hale's fingers paused over the controls. "That shouldn't happen without an external trigger."
The pressure in Shivis's chest shifted, rolling inward. His heartbeat slowed suddenly, then hit hard again, uneven. The room felt closer, like the walls had moved a step inward.
"So there are… levels?" Shivis asked, forcing the words out.
"Yes," Dr. Hale said. "Progression tiers. Measured growth."
"And how do they increase?" he asked.
No one answered immediately.
The lights flickered again—brief, uneven.
"Mostly through Arenas," Lina said finally. "Sometimes through prolonged exposure. Sometimes through things we don't fully understand yet."
The monitors screamed.
Not an alarm—just data surging too fast.
Dr. Hale swore under her breath. "That's not a level increase," she said. "That's divergence."
The pressure behind Shivis's eyes sharpened.
Something shifted.
The silence inside his head cracked—just a hairline fracture—but nothing came through.
Yet.
Not open—just fractured, like thin ice under pressure.
His breath stuttered. The pressure behind his eyes sharpened, focused now, pulling inward instead of spreading. The machines reacted instantly. A sharp tone cut through the room as red indicators flashed across the screens.
"Containment protocol," Dr. Mira Hale said. Her voice stayed calm, but her hands moved faster. "Now."
The chair responded before Shivis could ask what that meant.
A faint vibration passed through the restraints, then into his spine. It wasn't painful—more like a deep pressure, firm and steady, holding him in place. The hum of the room changed pitch, lower and heavier, like something being forced to stay quiet.
Lina's fingers flew over the console. "Power index isn't settling," she said. "It's branching."
"Branching how?" Dr. Hale asked.
"Multiple internal signatures," Lina replied. "Not layered. Parallel."
Dr. Hale stopped moving for half a second.
"That's not possible," she said quietly.
Shivis swallowed. His throat felt tight. "You keep saying that."
No one smiled.
The air smelled sharp now, metallic and dry. His skin prickled, every nerve awake. The pressure in his chest pulsed once, then again, slow and deliberate, like something testing the space it had entered.
The monitors showed unfamiliar symbols now—markers Shivis didn't recognize. Some readings climbed. Others vanished entirely.
"Levels aren't lining up," Lina said. "It's not moving through Threshold One properly."
"What is it doing?" Shivis asked.
Dr. Hale exhaled slowly. "Skipping."
The word landed heavy.
"Skipping what?" Shivis pressed.
"Early growth stages," she said. "Hosts usually stabilize, then rise through exposure—Arenas, residual zones, stress events. You're showing signs of recognition before any of that."
The pressure behind Shivis's eyes surged.
For a brief second, the room dimmed—not dark, just muted, like someone had turned the world down. The machines' hum faded into the background.
Dr. Hale straightened. "Increase dampeners."
Lina hesitated. "If we push harder, we might suppress—"
"Do it," Dr. Hale said.
The vibration intensified.
Shivis gasped as the pressure in his chest resisted, pressing back. Not pain. Resistance. Like two forces meeting and refusing to give.
The lights flickered violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
The monitors froze.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Dr. Hale stared at the screen.
"…These identifiers," she said slowly. "They're not registered."
Lina looked up. "Uncatalogued?"
Dr. Hale's jaw tightened.
"Forbidden," she said.
Shivis's breath caught.
The pressure inside his head shifted again—closer now, unmistakably present.
Not a voice.
Not yet.
But something was listening.
The pressure inside Shivis's head shifted closer, like a presence leaning in without touching. The air in the room felt heavier, thicker, pressing down on his chest. His breathing slowed—not by choice, but by force.
The machines reacted all at once.
A sharp alarm cut through the room, higher and more urgent than before. Red light flooded the panels, reflections dancing across the walls.
"System instability," Lina said, her calm slipping. "Dampeners aren't holding."
Dr. Mira Hale's eyes moved quickly across the frozen monitors. "They're not just failing," she said. "They're being ignored."
Ignored.
The vibration through the chair stuttered, then stopped entirely. The restraints loosened a fraction, enough for Shivis to feel the difference immediately.
His fingers twitched.
The smell of ozone grew stronger, sharp enough to sting his nose. Somewhere behind the walls, something clicked and powered down with a hollow thud.
"Backup grid isn't responding," Lina said. "It's like the system can't—"
The lights went out.
Not completely. Emergency strips along the floor flickered on, casting long red shadows across the room. The sudden quiet was worse than the alarms. The machines fell silent, their hum cut off mid-note.
Shivis's heart hammered.
In the dark, the pressure inside his head deepened. It wasn't painful. It was focused. A tight awareness settled behind his eyes, steady and patient.
Dr. Hale's voice came from the shadows. "Shivis. Look at me."
He turned his head slightly. Her face was half-lit by the emergency glow, eyes sharp, unblinking.
"Stay with us," she said. Not gently. Firmly.
"I am," Shivis replied. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—too steady.
Lina moved closer, her footsteps quick and uneven. "External sensors are dropping," she said. "Whatever he's carrying is interfering with the field."
The pressure inside Shivis's chest pulsed once.
The emergency lights flickered.
A thin crack split the air—like glass under stress—though nothing broke.
Dr. Hale's jaw tightened. "This facility was not built to hold forbidden constructs," she said.
The word constructs hung there.
Shivis swallowed. "You're talking like I'm not in the room."
Dr. Hale met his eyes again. "Right now," she said, "you're the only thing in this room the system doesn't understand."
The pressure inside Shivis's head shifted—closer still.
Not a voice.
But not silence anymore.
The emergency lights surged brighter.
And somewhere deep inside him, something settled in, as if it had found where it belonged.
Not heavy. Not light.
Just… there.
Shivis's breath slowed on its own. The panic that should have been rising didn't come. His heart still beat fast, but it felt controlled now, like it was no longer running alone.
The emergency lights glowed red along the floor.
Lina took a careful step back. "Dr. Hale," she said quietly, "his readings just changed again."
"I see it," Dr. Mira Hale replied.
One of the dark screens flickered back to life. Not fully—just lines and numbers, unstable and shaking. The symbols were wrong. They didn't match any medical format.
Shivis felt warmth spread from his chest, slow and steady. It moved outward, into his shoulders, his arms. Not pain. Not pressure.
Support.
The smell in the room shifted. The sharp ozone faded, replaced by something deeper, older—like warm stone after rain.
Dr. Hale stared at the screen. "That wasn't a surge," she said.
Lina swallowed. "Then what was it?"
"A response."
Shivis's fingers relaxed against the restraints. He hadn't told them to.
"What responded?" he asked.
No one answered right away.
The lights steadied. The air stopped pressing down. The cracked feeling in the room eased, like something dangerous had decided to wait.
Lina looked at Shivis, really looked this time. Her voice dropped. "It reacted to the containment failure."
"As if it understood it," Dr. Hale said.
A faint vibration passed through the chair, then faded. The restraints loosened slightly, just enough for Shivis to feel the difference.
Inside his head, the pressure didn't leave.
It shifted—closer, clearer.
Not a voice.
But awareness.
Dr. Hale exhaled slowly. "This is no longer a standard implantation," she said. "Whatever bonded with you… it's active."
Shivis stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling evenly.
"So," he said quietly, "what does that make me?"
Dr. Hale met his eyes.
"An exception," she said.
The word settled into the room.
And inside Shivis, something agreed.