Your vision swims, the ruined landscape of the battlefield tilting on its axis. The pressure in your chest is wrong. A deep, cold wrongness that spreads outwards in a single, shocking pulse.

You look down. A pale, dry hand is pressed against your sternum. The fingers are splayed, but it’s the thumb, curled cruelly inward, that you feel the most. A single, precise point of agony.

There is no sound. Only the feeling of something inside you coming apart at the seams, and the weight of two dozen stares locking onto you.