Time didn't flow linearly in the Records. It jumped, skipping the months of hiding and scavenging, landing me squarely in the middle of the next pivot point.
Three years had passed in the memory.
Tenebria wasn't a child in rags anymore. She was a teenager, clad in scavenged, blackened composite armor. She stood on the precipice of a Sector 7 neon-tower, watching the traffic below.
She had changed. The Gift of Gluttony thrummed within her chest. It wasn't just a healing factor; it was an engine of consumption. It allowed her to eat anything—metal, Miasma, organic matter—and convert it into raw mass and energy. She had grown denser, her muscles compacted like hydraulic pistons.
But she was still a rat in a city of lions.
"Target sighted," she whispered.
I followed her gaze.
Hovering below on a personal gravity-skiff was a demon draped in shimmering, holographic silks. He was tall, spindly, with four eyes that moved independently.
Viscount Vex.
