It's no trick, little bird," Hespera whispered, her voice a silk-wrapped blade that seemed to vibrate directly inside his skull.
She leaned in closer, the air around her smelling faintly of ozone and ancient dust. As her hand shifted within him, Matsuda's world narrowed to the white-hot agonizing reality of his own anatomy. He tried to scream, but only a thin, whistling sound escaped his throat.
Hespera's expression didn't change from that look of mild, scholarly interest. With a slow, deliberate jerk, she retracted her hand. There was no resistance, no friction—just the terrifying sensation of his weight being momentarily anchored to her before he collapsed onto the invisible floor of the void.
He clutched at the ruin of his midsection, his fingers slick with something far too warm for the freezing space they occupied. He waited for the end, for the darkness to finally take him, but Hespera simply wiped a stray drop of crimson from her knuckle with the tip of her tongue.
"Don't die just yet," she murmured, her slit pupils dilating until the gold was nearly swallowed by black. "I haven't even begun to look at what's inside your soul."