Sleep was a luxury invented by people who did not have public executions scheduled before breakfast.
The Obsidian cot had been designed by someone with a personal hatred of bones. Too narrow. Too short. Placed beneath a window that let moonlight cut across my face like an accusation. Every shift counted another wooden slat through the mattress, and the blanket smelled of soap, dust, and abandoned dreams.
Perfect training conditions.
My body disagreed.
Pain pulsed through my left palm in slow, black waves. Registration arch. Gold Hall porcelain. Controlled Null Touch. Uncontrolled consequences. Astral Zenith's old anchors pressed Aether through the campus like invisible weather, and my shattered core had spent the entire day pretending it could survive the climate.
The glove lay inside out beside the cot.
Black residue stained the lining.
Ren had offered to clean it.
I had refused.
Evidence should be studied before it was erased.
