The silence that followed the appearance of the silver hand was not a void, but a pressure. It pressed against the eardrums, thick and suffocating, as the group stared at the scrap of fabric held aloft by the translucent, metallic fingers.
The hand was still there.
The fingers were long and pale, skin pulled tight over bone until it looked like something wearing the shape of a hand rather than actually being one. And there, clutched between two translucent fingers, was a scrap of fabric.
Dark blue. Reinforced stitching at the edges. The exact kind of material used for tactical jacket sleeves.
Mu Cheng's breathing had become a series of jagged, audible hitches. He didn't move. He didn't even seem to blink. He just stared at the piece of his own sleeve, a piece he didn't remember losing, clutched by a thing that had no business existing.
