Cassian's world collapsed into pressure and darkness.
Robert's hands—no, not hands anymore—had become something else entirely. Thick, elastic layers wrapped over Cassian's face like living cloth, sealing his mouth, nose, ears. It felt like being shoved into a sack made of muscle and skin, every gap filled, every sense smothered.
He thrashed.
Or tried to.
His arms moved, but he couldn't tell how much. His legs kicked, but there was no feedback—no sound, no air, no space. The forest vanished. The firelight vanished. Even Robert's presence became distant, reduced to the constant, merciless drag as Cassian's body was hauled across the ground.
He couldn't breathe.
That was the worst part—not the lack of pain, not the tearing or pressure. Pain didn't come. His ability saw to that, numbing nerves, repairing damage as it happened. But it couldn't conjure air where there was none.
His lungs spasmed uselessly, reflex screaming for oxygen that never came.
Darkness surged, then receded.
