The air was still, so sterile that even the ticking of a clock would have been a symphony.
Pale white walls pressed in from every side.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in uniform silence.
A thin desk sat in the middle of the cubicle, cheap metal legs supporting a laminated faux-wood surface.
A single chair beside it.
A blanket crumpled in one corner. A cup of instant noodles resting cold near the monitor.
The smell of plastic and mild seasoning lingered.
Kivas sat cross-legged on the floor. Her hands rested limply on her lap, her halo flickering in dim pulses like an overworked machine unsure if it still functioned. Her wings were gone.
Her clothes had changed—loose pajamas, the same she used to wear during her nights of dread.
The dim reflection of her face on the turned-off monitor reminded her of what she once was, long before Fathomi, long before divine constructs, long before she tried to matter.
She knew this place.
Her old apartment.
