Nishanth's return to consciousness wasn't gentle. It was a sledgehammer blow of sensation. The sterile, ozone-tang of the med-bay air scraped his raw throat. Every breath was a laborious heave, met by a jagged protest from his left side where three ribs screamed their betrayal.
The memory of godhood – the effortless power, the absence of need – was a phantom limb, agonizing in its absence. He remembered the crushing weight of Mammon's final blow, the sickening crackle as divine energy extinguished within him, leaving only this fragile, aching meat-sack. He groaned, pushing himself up on trembling elbows, the rough med-cot fabric scratching his skin – another new, unwelcome intimacy.
Across the dimly lit room, illuminated by the flickering emergency strip lights reflecting off shattered glass and spilled medical supplies, Zara sat hunched. She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was locked onto her right hand, held out before her like a cursed artifact.
