The migraines worsened.
They came without warning now—sharp, blinding pain that forced Mara to stop whatever she was doing. Sometimes they were accompanied by flashes of sensation that didn't belong to her.
Cold metal against her scalp.Bright lights.A voice saying, hold still.
Mara would press her palms to her temples, breathing through the pain until the sensations faded. She told no one. Medical reports created trails. Trails created narratives.
And narratives could be rewritten.
At work, she moved more slowly. More carefully. She double-checked her movements, her speech, her posture. It felt absurd—she had never doubted her own body before.
But now, even small certainties felt fragile.
During one routine Echo review, she lost time.
Not much. Maybe a minute.
She came back to herself standing in the chamber, playback paused, technicians staring at her with thinly veiled concern.
"Mara?" one of them asked. "Are you alright?"
She nodded once. "Resume."
The Echo continued as if nothing had happened.
But Mara's hands were trembling.