STARLIGHT UNBOUND by Deus Ex Machina - HTML preview

STARLIGHT UNBOUND

the sterile scent of the hallways too sharp, slicing into his throat.

He made his way to the restroom, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft thud. Leaning over the sink, he turned the faucet on full blast and splashed cold water onto his face, gasping as the shock pierced through the haze. Water dripped from his chin as he gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white.

Staring into the mirror, his reflection unsettled him. Pale. Hollow. Haunted. His eyes, wide and searching, darted over his own features, looking for something—anything—that might explain what was happening to him. He touched the back of his neck, half-expecting to find a burn, a mark —some physical evidence of the fire that still lingered beneath his skin.

But there was nothing.

"This doesn ’t make sense," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I need to get back to work. Focus. Fix this."

As his fingers brushed over his scalp, a sharp, electric sensation shot through him—raw and burning, as if the current that had surged through his body earlier still clung to his skin. My scalp feels like it is on fire.

Lucien yanked his hand away, staring at his trembling fingers as though expecting them to be singed, covered in ash. But they were clean. Normal.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe, to push the feeling down. Shoving the panic deep inside where it couldn’t unravel him.

Back in the corridor, the sterile hum of the Bureau seemed louder— throbbing, relentless. It followed him. It was inside him.

Lucien dropped into his chair at his workstation, fingers hovering over the interface. The lines of data should have been comforting—familiar, predictable, precise. Instead, the streams of information blurred and warped, their edges distorting like ripples on water.

The servers droned louder, rising in pitch. It wasn ’t just sound anymore; it was pressure, suffocating and inescapable. The whole building felt... alive, its mechanical pulse piercing into his skin, into his bones.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms to his temples. “Focus. Just focus. It’s nothing.”

His pocket burned where the black disk rested, a reminder of the moment that wouldn’t let him go.

With a sudden, sharp breath, Lucien shoved his chair back from the station, the scrape of the legs drawing a few curious glances from nearby coworkers. He ignored them, his movements unsteady as he made his way to the breakroom, one hand trailing along the wall to keep his balance.

The breakroom was small—white walls, a row of chairs, and a coffee

55