The transition from the world of stone and snow to the world of glass and steel felt like a death and a cold, clinical rebirth.
When Gwen's eyes finally fluttered open, she did not see the damp, ancient moss of the Blackfang grotto or the flickering orange of torchlight that had defined her long months of captivity. Instead, she was greeted by a ceiling of pure, sterile white light—a simulated sky that felt devoid of air, movement, or honest heat.
She was lying on a bed of liquid silk, suspended in a room that felt less like a bedroom and more like a high-end containment unit. The walls were made of a strange, translucent alloy that pulsed with a soft violet hue, mirroring the rhythmic, artificial hum of the city that lived beneath the crust of the earth.
