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 gone. The deep 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 around his knuckles, all of it was gone.
He ran his bare fingers over his collarbone. The fatal slash had been erased. Smooth skin stretched over dense muscle. The constant hunger that had gnawed at his stomach for the last week was quiet. A 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.
Caleb stood and braced himself against the wind. The air carried none of the sulfur and rotting blood of the disposal yards. It tasted clean, filtered, and thin.
