The shadow broke first.
A half-second twitch—barely more than a blink. The tray's outline no longer aligned with the ceiling flicker. My eyes caught it before my mind did. Wrong shadow. Wrong angle. Wrong timing.
A disturbance.
A crack in the pattern.
And just like that, the fog inside me snapped like glass.
Tile. Spoon. Tray handle. Scratches.
Memory rushed in like floodwater through a breached dam.
The static in my head screamed louder. The diagnostic hum crescendoed into a droning throb, low-frequency pulses meant to numb. It wormed into my skull, vibrating against the base of my spine.
Above me, the collar descended—arms unfurling like the jaws of some slow-moving predator. Padded clamps flexed, preparing to lock.
I moved before thinking.
Twisting sideways, I threw my weight into the collar's housing, slamming my shoulder into the cold metal just as its arms reached for my throat. A bolt of pain seared across my ribs.
Metal groaned.
