Cold stone pressed against Caleb's spine.
He stared straight up through the cracked glass of his visor. The ceiling disappeared into the dark. The chamber stayed cold, untouched by the heat boiling through the tunnels above.
Old air moved across his jaw.
He tried to lift his right hand.
The muscles refused to fire. Paralysis locked his body flat against the slab. He could not turn his head or twitch a single finger.
The custom ballistic weave pulled tight across his ribs. At a one-point-two percent sync rate, the dead fibers offered zero assistance to his locked joints. The cold from the stone table seeped through the heavy fabric.
It sank directly into his marrow. His chest felt empty, stripped of any remaining body heat.
A wet rattle vibrated in his throat with every shallow breath. Scorpion venom pumped through his veins. The poison burned under his skin, tracking a bruised purple web across his collarbone.
