The transition was seamless.
One moment, Mara stood in the chamber. The next, she was somewhere else—inside someone else.
A narrow apartment. Flickering lights. The smell of burned oil and damp concrete. Her lungs burned as she sucked in air that wasn't hers.
I'm going to die.
The thought wasn't verbal. It arrived whole, heavy, undeniable.
The man—his name would come later—staggered toward the door. His vision blurred. Pain bloomed in his abdomen, sharp and wet. Blood soaked his shirt, warm against his skin.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Mara felt the spike of terror before she consciously registered the sound. Fear arrived faster than thought, faster than language.
He turned.
A woman stood in the doorway.
Her face was twisted with something like regret.
Then the knife flashed.
Pain exploded.
Mara felt it all—the impact, the loss of balance, the taste of metal in her mouth. She fell with him, the world tilting violently. The ceiling rushed closer.
The woman loomed over him, shaking.
"I didn't mean to—" she said.
His heart stuttered.
The world narrowed.
And then—
Silence.
The chamber lights returned.
Mara inhaled slowly, grounding herself in her own body again. Her pulse was steady. Her breathing controlled.
She turned to the technician.
"Spouse confirmed," she said. "Mark it."
The technician nodded, already logging the verdict.
Another case closed.
Another truth preserved.
Mara washed her hands afterward, as she always did. The ritual mattered. It separated her from the dead. From borrowed pain.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror above the sink.
Detached. Composed. Unmoved.
That was how the system needed her.