The words did not belong to Raymond. The sound that poured from his throat was deeper, more cavernous, like something echoing across the walls of a cathedral carved from bone.Ayla froze, her hands still on his face, as the abyssal voice rattled through her veins. “THE HEIR IS BROKEN, THE TITAN WALKS NOW.”She recoiled. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not you.”Raymond sat up with mechanical slowness, his limbs jerking like a marionette’s strings were being pulled by unseen hands. His head turned toward her, both eyes yawning pits of void, bottomless, hungry.For an instant she thought she saw fragments of his face creases of exhaustion, the faint scar at his jaw but then the abyss swallowed it whole, devouring the last traces of him.Ayla scrambled backward across the stone floor. Her palms slipped on the damp moss, Her chest heaved. She’d pulled him back, She’d fought the prison, She had saved him. And yet, he wasn’t Raymond anymore. He rose to his feet with a grace too alien to be hum

The silence before the collapse felt wrong. Ayla Trent had trained herself to recognize patterns in code, in people, in the smallest fractures of behavior. And right now, the hum of the underground detention facility was too steady.The fluorescent lights didn’t flicker. The ventilation fans didn’t shift pitch. Even the guards’ movements outside Raymond’s steel-barred holding room had grown mechanical, rehearsed, stripped of the little imperfections of real life.Her instincts screamed: something was about to break. Raymond sat across from her at the bolted steel table, wrists cuffed, posture deceptively loose. He wasn’t tense the way she was. If anything, he looked amused.“You hear it too, don’t you?” he said softly, as if continuing a conversation they hadn’t started. His voice was silk over a razor. Ayla’s eyes narrowed. “Hear what?”Raymond tilted his head. “The absence. True silence isn’t natural here. Every system has noise. Every person leaves ripples. But this” he gestured la