The sound felt louder than it should have.
He stood slowly, the chair legs scraping faintly against the floor. His palms were slightly damp now. He rubbed them once against his jeans without thinking, then stopped, aware of the movement.
The man gestured toward the open doorway. "This way."
Shivis followed.
The hallway beyond was dimmer than before. The lights overhead were spaced farther apart, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor. With each step, Shivis felt more aware of his body—the weight of his shoulders, the tightness in his chest, the way his heartbeat had picked up a steady, impatient rhythm.
His mouth felt dry.
He swallowed.
The air here smelled different. Less disinfectant. More metal. Something faintly electrical, like the air before a storm. It prickled lightly against his skin, especially along his arms.
They stopped in front of a wide door marked:
PREPARATION CHAMBER
The man reached for the panel but paused.
Shivis shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers curled, then relaxed. He rolled his shoulders once, subtle, like he was loosening up before something physical. His breathing was controlled, but shallow.
"People usually ask last-minute questions here," the man said casually.
Shivis let out a short breath. "Does it hurt?"
The man considered this. "Sometimes."
"That's not reassuring."
A faint smile appeared. "It's honest."
The door slid open.
Cool air washed over Shivis immediately, raising a light chill along his neck and arms. Inside, the room was larger than expected. Clean. Bright. Machines lined the walls, their surfaces smooth and dark, lights blinking in slow, patient patterns.
At the center stood a reclining chair—wide, reinforced, with restraints folded neatly at its sides.
Shivis's stomach tightened.
He took one step forward, then another. His pulse thudded louder in his ears now. He was aware of every sound—the soft hum of the machines, the distant whirring of something spinning behind the walls, the quiet rhythm of his own breathing.
A woman in medical attire stood near the chair, checking readings on a floating screen.
She glanced up.
"Shivis," she said, voice calm. "You're right on time."
He nodded once.
The door slid shut behind him.
The sound sealed the room.
Shivis stood still for a second, then stepped closer to the chair. The floor beneath his shoes felt colder here, the chill rising faintly through the soles. The machines around the room hummed in slow rhythm, lights blinking like patient eyes.
"Sit," a familiar voice said.
Lina stood near the console now, pale blue uniform unchanged, tablet in hand. Up close, Shivis noticed how calm she looked—shoulders relaxed, posture steady. Like this room belonged to her.
He sat.
The chair adjusted automatically, shifting under his weight with a soft mechanical sound. The surface was cool against his back, firm but not uncomfortable. Side supports slid into place near his arms without touching yet.
Lina stepped closer, checking the screen.
"Heart rate's up," she said casually.
Shivis let out a short breath. "Shocking."
She smiled faintly, not looking at him. "It'll settle."
A second figure entered his view—a woman in darker medical attire, older, movements precise. Her badge read Dr. Mira Hale.
She was the kind of person who didn't waste motion.
"Shivis," she said, meeting his eyes briefly. "I'll be overseeing the implantation."
He nodded.
Dr. Hale tapped a control. The chair reclined slightly. Restraints unfolded and closed gently around Shivis's wrists and ankles—not tight, just firm enough to remind him they were there.
The air shifted.
Cooler. Sharper.
Shivis became aware of every small sensation—the faint vibration through the chair, the smell of sterile metal, the slight pressure where the restraints touched his skin. His fingers twitched once, then went still.
Lina moved to his side.
"Last chance to panic," she said lightly.
"Already did that in my head," Shivis replied.
"Good. Saves time."
Dr. Hale lifted a slim injector from its cradle. The device was clear, filled with something that caught the light strangely—not liquid, not solid. It seemed to hold still only when no one looked at it directly.
Shivis swallowed.
The machines' hum deepened, almost matching his pulse.
Dr. Hale positioned the injector above his arm.
"Stay still," she said.
The room felt very quiet all at once.
The lights did not flicker.
The needle descended.