Zubair returned to himself in layers.
The first thing he noticed was the cold.
Not the good kind—the honest bite of wind off a frozen river—but the sterile kind trapped inside walls scrubbed too clean.
Then the hum that lived in the bones of the place. Not a generator's growl. Not a home's breath. Clinical. Controlled.
He did not open his eyes.
He listened.
Air moved through a vent high and right, cycling on a slow metronome.
Footsteps far down a corridor, rubber soles that didn't trust their own sound. A door sealed somewhere with a gasketed sigh. Two voices traded numbers behind glass. Not close. Not concerned.
He opened his eyes.
Plexiglass, eight by eight, rose around him like a clear coffin.
The ceiling was ten feet tall, crossed with steel lattice so neat even the shadows respected the geometry. The corners were sealed, the seams perfectly flushed.
