The latch finished its rotation with a muted clack.
Metal shifted against metal, slow and deliberate, as the transport cage unlocked. The sound carried farther than it should have, sliding across the training yard like a blade drawn just enough to be noticed.
Psycho didn't breathe.
Neither did Zubair.
The cage door split down the center and began to retract inward, panels folding back on hidden rails. Cold spilled out first, not air but absence, a temperature that didn't belong to the space it entered. It crawled across the ground in a low, creeping wave that made the fine dust shiver.
A shape lay inside.
Curled.
Still.
For a fraction of a second, Zubair's mind refused to process it as a body. It was too small. Too wrong in proportion. Limbs folded in on themselves at angles that spoke of restraint rather than rest.
Then the platform lights shifted.
And color returned.
Not red.
Not human.
