Her teeth chatter and her fingers tremble, and of course there's pain, of course there's misery, an undercurrent's wish for death. Those final six months, compressed into six minutes. Even when the collar finally slips loose from her curled fingers, even with that connection severed, it doesn't erase what's already been taken. It doesn't remove the build-up inside her, still waiting to be felt, to be processed, to be filtered into the reservoirs of her heart, to reside and rot with all the rest.

Fear has her by the throat, but still she breathes in the warmth of that golden fire, growing ever brighter, burning through the darkness.

A strange figure kneels before her, his eyes reflecting so much light that they seem more like mirrors. A voice. A hand, touching hers.

He is going to destroy her.