The room stank of rot and antiseptic. Lynx peeled off her gloves with slow, practiced precision. The infected body lay still on the table behind her—jaw half-detached, eyes clouded, fingers curled like claws. She had opened it cleanly, unlike whoever had patched it together in the streets before it lost its mind. No answers. Just more proof the disease didn’t kill clean—it rewrote. She dipped her hands into the basin, scrubbing away dried blood and the thin yellow film that clung to her skin like guilt. The water turned pink. Then red. Then dark. Outside, Swan’s Nest moved quietly through the camp—collecting, treating, watching. They didn’t ask what she did in the locked room. They didn’t need to. Lynx raised her eyes to the cracked mirror above the sink. Her reflection stared back—calm, alert, utterly untouched. However she flinched before she cleared her throat as a knock drummed on the door.
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