Christopher sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor where the chandelier's reflection fractured into dull amber shards. The walls hummed faintly with the low pulse of the palace's energy system, but the sound only made the silence worse.
His throat ached. The collar was still there, cold, heavy, and mercilessly present even a day later. Every time he swallowed, he could feel it shift against his skin, a precise weight that didn't belong to him.
The biometric patch on his arm blinked again, red this time. Stress response is critical. Secondary alert engaged.
He didn't move. He hadn't moved for a long time.
His body still trembled from the fight, from the withdrawal, from everything. The air smelled faintly of Dax's pheromones, buried under layers of ventilation and cleaning agents, but still there. That scent was like smoke after a fire: faint, clinging, and impossible to scrub away.
The door slid open quietly.
"Christopher."
