The infirmary light stripped everything down to truth.
No shadows. No distortion. No softness to hide behind.
Galathea Brooks sat on the edge of the bed, her left hand turned upward beneath the sterile brightness, the mark resting fully exposed against her skin. It hadn't faded. It hadn't blurred. If anything, the lines had settled deeper, as if observation had allowed it to root itself more completely.
A hooded figure. A blade driven downward.
Not ink. Not injury.
Something claimed.
Her thumb moved slowly across it.
Nothing.
No texture. No resistance. No warmth.
Just skin.
Across from her, Cael Alexander stood with one hand braced against the counter. Still. Controlled. Watching.
Dr. Ibarra's voice lingered faintly in memory. "No inflammation. No foreign substance. No trauma indicators."
Just skin.
Galathea lowered her hand, then looked at him, "You have this."
The words were quiet. Direct.
Cael didn't answer immediately.
