Rodion's count strip ran like a thin river of blue at Mikhailis's feet. It was not bright, not a hero's spotlight—more like moon on wet slate. The pulse was even and polite: hold, hold, bite, slide, reset. Each beat climbed his body—ankles first, then knees, then shoulders—until his muscles remembered that agreement was stronger than fear. The chamber breathed its own lung-sound through bone vents, a slow wheeze that tried to pull minds off the rhythm. The strip gave them another spine to stand on, a second truth under their boots.
"Sky left. Ankles right," he said, voice low, edges smoothed like a whetstone that had seen years. He didn't shout. People leaned toward softness when the world was loud.
