The rain in East London didn't fall; it assaulted. It was a cold, biting sleet that soaked through Lyra's thin cotton shirt in seconds, clinging to her skin like a shroud. In the Simulation, rain had been a mood a digital overlay to signify sadness or tension. Here, it was a physical threat. It sapped the heat from her bones and turned the pavement into a treacherous, oil-slicked mirror.
Lucian pulled her into the shadow of a brick archway beneath the Overground tracks. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving in a way that looked painful. His silver eyes were gone, replaced by a deep, stormy grey that looked humanly exhausted.
"Are you... hurt?" Lyra wheezed, her lungs burning. She hadn't realized that "running" required a rhythmic exchange of oxygen that her body wasn't used to managing.
