"Nothing at the site," Daya said quietly, running the scanner along his thigh. "Whatever was in there… it's gone."
"Scar tissue's fresh," said the other assistant. "It was here recently. Just didn't stay."
"No readings at all?" asked the surgeon.
"None."
The neural monitor jumped. Two spikes. Then a steady buzz.
"Heart rate's climbing. Is he waking up?"
"No. Still unresponsive."
"Then why—"
The body jerked.
"Back off," the surgeon snapped. "Don't hold him."
The vitals spiked again.
One of the aides checked the spine feed. "His brain's showing activity. Full stimulation."
"He's not conscious."
"No, but something's lighting him up."
Then Vincent's shoulders shifted.
The muscle just above the clavicle began to tighten—first on the right, then the left. The skin pinched upward like something was pushing out from underneath.
"Something's forming," Daya said, backing off the table.
"Implants?"
"No port readings."
