The explosion echoed in Noa’s ears like a pulse from another world. Everything was ringing metal, bone, memory. The scorched remains of Sabine’s synthetic shell smoked nearby, twitching once, then collapsing into itself like a dying star. Her army of clone-puppets lay in chunks, the green tank fluid steaming against the frozen concrete floor. Julian stood in the wreckage like a dark prophecy fulfilled.

“Still breathing?” he asked, voice rough as gravel.

Noa blinked. ...