The first thing Mira felt was cold.
Not the sharp cold of weather, but the deeper kind, it was clinical, metallic. Engineered.
Her eyelids fluttered, weighed down by silver-drenched sedation. Her limbs refused to obey. Every muscle felt detached, like her body had been wrapped in fog and memory and bound by something invisible.
Where...
Her wolf stirred beneath the surface, disoriented, sick.
They’d done something to it.
Me.
Her thoughts were fractured. Half-memories warred with dreams: Grey’s face fading into smoke. Echo’s hand slipping from hers. Seventeen’s pulse racing beneath her palms.
She was losing time.
“Welcome back, Subject Luna-13.”
The voice was too clear, too calm. Female. Synthetic.
Mira forced her eyes open.
Bright white walls. No windows. No doors. Just seamless panels and smooth metal veins that pulsed faintly with blue light.
A sterile cage.
She was strapped to a reclining chair, metallic cuffs locked around her wrists, her ankles. A band crossed her chest. Thin nee
