Jason stood in the blank white expanse of his own subconscious and sighed.
The sensation of dying was distant here, like weather happening to someone else. He already understood the broad shape of the problem. The wounds. The interference. The way the healing had stuttered and failed at the worst possible moment. None of it required lengthy deduction.
A darker version of himself stepped out of the emptiness.
It wore his face, his build, his posture—but the edges were wrong. Shadows pooled too heavily under the eyes and along the jaw. The presence that looked out through those eyes was older, denser, and fundamentally not human. The Marrow, wearing his shape like a borrowed coat.
Jason didn't waste time on surprise.
"What the hell was that?" he asked. "You can heal me. Instantly. You've done it before with worse. Why am I bleeding out on a street while you stand here looking decorative?"
The Marrow's expression—his expression—creased with something close to genuine confusion.
