Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The smell of industrial bleach coated the back of Caleb's throat.
He lay flat on a stiff cot. His custom ballistic weave and the torn canvas Break-Tab harness were gone, replaced by a thin hospital gown.
He shifted his weight. His right arm moved flawlessly.
Reaching down, bare fingers brushed his lower ribs. Thick ridges formed a rough spiral pattern over his flesh. The massive hole in his left side was completely sealed.
His stomach was silent.
Caleb waited for the hunger to twist under his ribs.
Nothing came.
No bite. No heat. No desperate pull toward food.
His hand tightened around the blanket.
That was wrong.
A plastic chair creaked in the corner.
Soma sat slumped against the wall. The operator wore a white trench coat with a heavy fur collar. Silver-white hair fell over his eyes.
"Eight hours," Soma stated. "Your tissue regenerated overnight."
Caleb sat up. His joints popped. "It healed."
