Freezing wind bit into bare skin.
Caleb pushed his face off the rough grit of a tar-sealed rooftop. The crushing exhaustion from the containment bay disaster was completely gone. The deep, grinding ache in his right shoulder had vanished.
He pressed his hands flat against the freezing roof and pushed himself up to his knees.
He wore nothing. The surplus armor, the dark-gray undersuit, the heavy combat boots, the medical tape wrapping his knuckles—all of it was gone.
He ran his bare fingers over his collarbone. The jagged, fatal slash was erased. Smooth, unbroken skin stretched over dense, unfamiliar muscle. The constant, hollow starvation gnawing at his stomach for the last week was entirely quiet. A heavy, terrifying furnace burned in its place, anchoring his center of gravity.
The damaged thing inside his chest had stopped asking for fuel. It had finished its work while he slept.
