Days later, 'not yet' stopped sounding like a countdown and began to sound like a lie told to oneself because there was nothing else to do.
Arion's eyes were changing with alarming speed.
The faint ring that had first appeared at the edge of the iris had widened day by day, with the brown pushing back as if something was flooding in from the outside and claiming territory. The physicians called it progression. Otto called it a nightmare. Dax called it what it was: an infection that took the shape of a child.
They kept Arion sedated more often than not, not because they wanted him unconscious, but because waking meant fear, and fear meant pheromone spikes, and spikes meant unknown variables. Even asleep, he sometimes flinched as if his body were fighting something it didn't understand.
The hospital section stayed locked down.
