The wound under Kai's hand stitched itself closed, not with magic, but with something far more unsettling—raw, forced recalibration. The flesh twisted and knitted together as if unseen hands were rewriting reality itself, tugging at the edges of his skin like a seam being pulled taut. It wasn't healing; it was correction, an unnatural mending that left no scar, no trace of injury, as though the wound had never been permitted to exist in the first place. The sensation sent a sickening jolt through Kai's nerves, like static crawling beneath his fingertips, a wrongness that made his stomach lurch.
Varaan's breath caught—sharp, ragged, a sound torn between disbelief and fury. Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of near-death. Then, without warning, her fist snapped out, striking him square in the jaw with enough force to snap his head to the side.
