Braxton Miller stood against the wall of a private recovery room, an unlit synth-cigarette trembling between his fingers. He'd been rolling it back and forth for the past hour. Hadn't smoked once. The nurses would kill him if he did, and right now, Braxton figured he deserved worse than a lecture from medical staff.
The room was high-security. Reinforced walls. Soundproofing that could muffle a bomb. A single window that looked out over the academy's eastern courtyard, where students walked to classes like the world hadn't almost ended two days ago.
The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the life support monitor.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Each pulse felt like an accusation.
Braxton looked at the bed.
Satori Nakano looked small.
