Noa didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just stood there as the machine behind him buzzed to life, cold steel arms unfolding from the wall like mechanical insects. The syringes filled, one by one, each fluid a different shade of nightmare blue, red, something nearly black.

Ash watched him with a patient smile, the kind of grin that didn’t come from happiness but from complete certainty. He believed in what he was doing. Believed he was right. That was the worst part.

“Ash,” ...