Calyx awoke with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like rust scraping against metal. Consciousness arrived in parts, first a dull throb behind his eyes, then a prickling awareness of cool concrete against his bare skin. He pushed himself up, muscles protesting with a sequence of aches, and squinted against the glare filtering through the chipped window.
The sterile walls of his room seemed different this time, washed in a strange, coppery hue. He blinked, thinking it was just some trick of the neon that seeped through the grime, but when he traced a finger across his chest, he felt something slick and metallic smeared under his calloused skin.
Blood. His blood? No, the color was wrong, deeper, richer, a shade he couldn't quite place. It clung to his clothes, like a gory baptism staining the rough fabric, and a metallic savor filled his nostrils, sharp and pungent.
