The first thing Tessa felt was the cold.
Not sharp. Not painful.
Just ever-present, like it had crept inside her and settled beneath the skin. The kind of cold that came not from climate, but architecture—deep, hidden, deliberate.
The second thing she felt was weight—the scratch of fabric against her palms, the aching pull in her shoulders. Her head throbbed low and steady. Her ribs still ached where the construct had caught her off-guard. The scent of oxidized steel clung to the air—faint copper and carbon, like old blood dried into circuitry.
She opened her eyes.
Dim light. Greenish. Flickering. Buzzing like static memory.
Ceiling tiles warped with age. A cracked ventilation grate wheezed above her, coughing out a recycled breath of stale air.
She was lying on a bench. Rough padding. A folded jacket beneath her head.
Camilla's.
