Essi embraced him. He pulled her tight and inhaled the sweet vanilla of her soft hair. She was all the warmth he ever wanted, and when she looked up at him he saw the same desire reflected in her eyes. They were destined to be together, the map of their lives marked by marriage, children, happiness, joy, experiences that were wondrous to behold. He saw all the milestones in her glittering eyes and felt profound happiness at what lay ahead. But there was fear also, and doubt.
None of it is real.
The moment that thought flashed through his head, she was gone. And then came darkness. And the fall. A drop without end, spinning, tumbling, a terrible sense of imminent impact. He felt the chill of old sweat against his skin and the thunder of a panicked heart, and looked around but saw only black.
Then there was burning light and an ugly world came into being. He could hear distant voices, and even though they were muffled, their anger was clear. Above him, cracked grey paint flaked from the ceiling, drawing hard, unmoving veins that loomed over him. His mouth was full of bitterness, as though he’d eaten a thousand wasp stings, and every swallow burned his throat. But he didn’t mind any of it, and that was perhaps the strangest thing. It was as though his life belonged to someone else and he really couldn’t get that upset about any of it.
There was movement nearby and he saw a familiar face. Awut. The killer who’d rescued him from prison. The man with the black patch. The black patch.
Ziad looked down and saw one clinging to his shoulder. He remembered choking, struggling to breathe, and wondered whether the patch had somehow saved him. He was almost certain it was responsible for the dreamy detachment he was experiencing.
Awut walked to the doorway and leaned out of the dank old office that had been Ziad’s bedroom for the past few days, and the angry voices stopped. Ziad tracked a shadow that moved across the dirty frosted-glass panels that separated the office from the rest of the warehouse. The shape shifted and danced across the irregular panes until it became a person in the doorway. Elroy Lang, the only friend he’d had inside Al Aqarab.
Awut stepped outside the room and leaned against one of the glass panels, while Elroy approached Ziad and sat on the low army surplus cot.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Out of it,’ Ziad rasped.
‘You saved your friend’s life,’ Elroy nodded towards Awut’s shadow. ‘He encountered a high dose of toxin that consumed the synthetic hormone far more rapidly than usual. If you hadn’t given him a new patch, he would have died.’
‘Toxin?’ Ziad asked. ‘Like in the prison? What does that have to do with these?’ He gestured at his own patch.
Elroy smiled, but it wasn’t a joyous expression. It was the look of a doctor about to break bad news. He stood and closed the office door, before returning to sit at the end of Ziad’s bed.
‘I never wanted this for you,’ Elroy said. ‘There was no need. We knew you’d be motivated to take revenge against the Salamovs. There was no call for any additional incentive.’
He hesitated.
‘If only you’d worn the gloves,’ he sighed. ‘But what’s done is done. You’re wearing the patch now, and that means you need to know what it does, and how it keeps you alive.’
Ziad listened, and each word was like a painful hammer blow. By the time Elroy was done, Ziad’s old life had been smashed and he’d been introduced to his new hellish existence and the terrible succubus that gripped his shoulder. He looked down at the patch and howled with anguish.