The room felt colder than it had moments ago. The silence was not the comforting kind that accompanied peace—it was the silence that lived in hesitation, in unsaid thoughts, in uncertainty.
Luke sat quietly, eyes fixed on the scribbled parchment he'd supposedly written during his unconsciousness. English letters—the language of his past life—stretched awkwardly across the page in jittery strokes, warped by the pressure of fingers that had no memory of writing them. The riddled message still clung to him with its strange familiarity, yet even that couldn't anchor the unease starting to bloom in his chest.
That place he'd been in. That voice. That conversation.
Was it all real?
A Godsend, He called him. A mission. A chance to fulfil a promise. Luke wanted to believe in it. Every fibre of his being did, because if that hadn't been real… then what had he survived for?
But now, the words of General Charis whispered like poison in the back of his mind.
