He picked it up.
Didn't inject it yet.
Just held it.
Looked at himself in the mirror above the desk, half-fogged, frame cracked at the corner. His face wasn't tired. Not yet. But it was close.
There was a twitch under his left eye. Small. Constant.
His reflection didn't blink.
Rikta said aloud, "You've fought better."
The mirror didn't answer.
He laughed once, quiet, short, a little bitter.
"You've looked better."
He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, wiped the skin once, then held the injector steady.
Click.
Cold.
Sharp.
Immediate.
The second he felt the bite, his hand gripped the edge of the desk hard enough to creak the wood.
The pressure came fast.
Like someone had poured speed into his bloodstream. Not adrenaline. Not panic. Just sharpness. A kind of forced focus that made every blink feel like a calculation.
He took a breath.
Then another.
Let it settle.
