MACE

I was a statue carved from burning stone.

I was conscious. That was the cruelest part of Michael’s poison. It didn’t offer the mercy of oblivion. It locked me inside my own body, severing the connection between will and muscle, while simultaneously lighting every nerve ending on fire.

I lay on a sterile table in a secure room inside the Tokyo compound. The air smelled of ozone, dried herbs, and the metallic tang of my own terrified sweat. I couldn’t blink. My eyes were fixed on the ceiling, burning dry in their sockets until someone—Cassandra, I think—came and manually closed my lids, putting drops in them.

Inside the cage...