The smell came first. Not smoke, not dust, not the copper bite of blood that had rimmed the edge of Raizen's last memory. Antiseptic and lemon, cool air that hummed through a clean vent, and the soft thrum of machinery hidden behind walls. Not like the Underworks… The sound is clearer. He rose toward that hum like a diver breaking for air.
Light pressed against his eyelids. He pried them open.
A white ceiling waited above him, not plain white but veined with hair-thin threads of luminite that pulsed in a slow, reassuring rhythm. The panels were cut like leaves and fitted together with the precision of a clock. Every pulse sent a faint blue reflection skimming the polished floor. Somewhere, a diagnostic node clicked and exhaled. A second, gentler rhythm whispered at his bedside - his vitals scrolling in patient, green glyphs.
He tried to turn his head and the world sloshed, heavy and delayed. The pillow crackled under his cheek. Cool weight slid a little on his forehead.
