The air inside the Doom Core felt like trying to breathe liquid concrete. Ambient light flickered in dull, sterile silver flashes, casting long, fractured shadows across the black marble beneath their feet.
Cael's hand was still extended toward her, his broad shoulders braced against the invisible, suffocating pressure of the environment. He looked exactly like the corporate apex predator she had married, his bespoke suit immaculate despite the impossible, otherworldly architecture collapsing around them. The scent of his cedarwood cologne clashed violently with the chilled ozone and heavy metallic tang of the Core.
A low, mechanical hum vibrated through the floorboards, creeping up Galathea's calves and settling into a heavy pressure right beneath her ribs.
The Doom had just discovered the second heartbeat.
Galathea blinked into disorientation, her hand drifting instinctively toward her stomach. Her throat went dry.
