It's just black.

  But not the same kind of black as before. Not like the time under Pop-pop's boat, when the world disappeared and I couldn't tell which way was up. This black feels... thinner somehow. Like if I push against it hard enough, I might break through to something else.

  The pain is familiar though. That's the same. That violent, all-consuming agony that makes you wish for death even as you fight like hell to stay alive. My stomach feels wrong—not just injured but fundamentally incorrect, like someone rearranged my insides using a blender and duct tape.

  I can't tell if I'm still underwater. Everything is pressure and darkness and cold. So cold. Delaware River cold, not Jersey Shore cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes a home there, inviting all its nasty friends to the party.

  You need to swim, I tell myself. Get to the surface. But which way is the surface? And are my limbs even moving, or am I just imagining that they are?

  I try to open my eyes, but they burn with a chemical sting that makes me snap them shut again. My lungs scream for air, or maybe they're screaming because they're full of river water. It's hard to tell the difference when everything hurts this much.

  Something feels familiar about this pain, though. Not just the drowning—I've only done that once before—but the specific, searing agony in my gut. It reminds me of...

  History on repeat, like a cosmic joke. Except last time I had no idea what was happening. This time, I chose it. This time, I knew exactly what would happen when Mrs. Quiet raised her gun. I knew what it would feel like when those bullets tore through me.

  I wonder if they bought it. If Mr. Nothing and Mr. Polygraph think Soot is dead.

  If Kate is safe.

  Kate. The thought of her shifts something in my mind, brings a tiny bit of clarity to the darkness. She's counting on me. They all are. I can't die here in this polluted river like some kind of trash fish.

  My body feels distant, like I'm operating it by remote control. I try to focus on moving my arms, my legs, anything. The darkness pulses around me, and I realize it's in sync with my heartbeat. Which means I'm still alive. Yay.

  A strange warmth begins to spread through me, starting in my abdomen and radiating outward. It's not a gentle warmth, like sitting by a fire. It's aggressive, almost violent. Like someone poured liquid metal into my veins.

  Hypeman.

  It must be kicking in. I remember fumbling with the autoinjector as the current dragged me deeper, remember the sharp sting as the needle punched through my waterlogged clothes into my flesh. I had no idea if it would work. No idea if it would save me or just make my death more interesting.

  The warmth intensifies, becomes almost unbearable. My blood is boiling, or at least it feels that way. I can feel... everything. Every cell, every fiber, every microscopic part of my body trying to knit itself back together. It's not pleasant. Healing this fast isn't supposed to feel good. It feels like being unmade and remade all at once, like my body is a construction site where the workers are all on meth.

  I feel a sharp, shooting pain in my face where the bullet grazed me. Something's growing there, pushing outward from under my skin. Teeth. Of course. Because why have a normal healing process when you can have nightmare fuel instead?

  My blood sense suddenly explodes into awareness, expanding outward like a sonar ping. I can feel blood—not just mine, but blood in the water around me. Fish blood. Bird blood. Human blood. It's distant, but it's there, a constellation of life in this toxic soup I'm drifting through.

  I need to move. I need to swim. But which way?

  Something bumps against my back. Hard and rough, but not hard like a rock. Hard like...wood? I strain to turn myself around, to get some sense of what I've collided with.

  A dock. I've drifted into a dock. Right. Just like the plan.

  With monumental effort, I manage to flip myself onto my stomach. My face breaks the surface, and I gasp, sucking in air that tastes like petroleum and industrial runoff. It's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.

  Through burning eyes, I make out weathered wooden planks above me. There's a gap between them, a sliver of night sky visible. If I can just... reach up...

  My arm feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, but I force it upward, fingers stretching toward the gap. I miss. Try again. Miss again. The current is trying to pull me away from the dock, back out into the deeper channel. I'm not going to get another chance at this.

  With one last surge of effort, I lunge upward, my fingers catching on splintered wood. I hold on for dear life, feeling splinters dig into my skin. They'll just be more things for my body to push out later.

  Slowly, painfully, I pull myself closer to the dock, until I can hook my other arm through the gap. Now I'm hanging half-submerged from the underside of the dock, like some kind of weird remora fish.

  I hang there for what feels like hours but is probably minutes, just trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious. The Hypeman continues its work, that violent warmth spreading through every part of me. I can almost feel the bullet holes closing, the torn flesh mending itself.

  It doesn't feel like my normal healing. It feels...angrier. More aggressive. Like my cells aren't just repairing damage but looking for a fight.

  My blood sense continues to expand, reaching further and further. I can sense every bleeding organism within what must be half a mile radius. Fish with parasites. A bird with a broken wing. A squirrel with a torn paw. And people. I can sense people on the docks above me, their hearts pumping blood through their bodies in distinct patterns I could recognize blindfolded.

  I strain to turn my head, looking around in the darkness. Through the murk, I can make out lights in the distance. The Wissinoming Yacht Club, my brain supplies after a moment. There's some real cosmic irony in ending up here, at another dock, bleeding out from another life-threatening injury. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

  "...over here!" a voice calls from somewhere above me. It sounds familiar, but I can't place it through the ringing in my ears.

  "Are you sure?" another voice responds. "The current should have carried her further downstream."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "I'm sure. This way."

  Footsteps on the dock above me. Heavy, purposeful. I should probably call out, let them know I'm here. But my voice isn't working. All I can manage is a weak slapping of my hand against the wood.

  Slap. Slap. Slap.

  The footsteps stop directly above me.

  "Did you hear that?" the first voice asks.

  "Under the dock," the second voice replies. "Quick, get a light."

  A beam of light slices through the gap in the planks, momentarily blinding me. I flinch away from it, nearly losing my grip.

  "Holy shit," the first voice says. "Bloodhound? Is that you?"

  I try to respond, but all that comes out is a wet cough, river water spewing from my lungs.

  "We need to get her out of there. Now."

  More footsteps, moving quickly away and then returning with more people. The light shifts as multiple flashlight beams converge on my position.

  "How the hell did she end up here?" someone asks.

  "Who cares? We need to get her out before she drowns. Or before whatever's in that water kills her."

  "Careful with the teeth," someone warns. "They're everywhere."

  Teeth? I don't understand what they're talking about until I glance down at my body. Through my torn, waterlogged clothes, I can see dozens—maybe hundreds—of tiny teeth sprouting from my skin like some kind of bizarre bone armor. They're growing, falling off, and being replaced by new ones constantly. The water around me is filled with floating teeth, some of them starting to dissolve instantly.

  That's... new.

  Hands reach down through the gap, grabbing at my arms, my shoulders, anywhere they can get purchase. I try to help, try to push myself upward, but my body won't cooperate. The Hypeman is too busy rebuilding my insides to worry about little things like motor control.

  "On three," someone says above me. "One... two... three!"

  I'm hoisted upward with a mighty heave, scraping painfully against the edge of the dock as they pull me through the gap. The teeth on my skin catch and break off, a shower of enamel confetti marking my passage.

  As I emerge onto the dock, the cool night air hits my wet skin like a slap. I start shivering uncontrollably, my teeth—the normal ones in my mouth—chattering like castanets.

  "Jesus Christ," someone mutters. "Look at her."

  I force my eyes open, blinking away river water, and try to focus on the faces above me. Crossroads is there, looking more worried than I've ever seen him. And...is that Tasha? What's she doing here? There are others too, but my vision is starting to blur again.

  "She's losing too much blood," Tasha says, her voice clinical despite the panic in her eyes. "And she's hypothermic. We need to get her somewhere warm, fast."

  "The van's just up the hill," Crossroads says. "Can we move her?"

  Someone presses something against my abdomen—a jacket or sweater, maybe—and it immediately blooms with warmth as fresh blood soaks through it.

  "We have to," Tasha replies. "She won't make it otherwise."

  Arms slide under me, lifting me carefully but quickly. The motion makes the world spin around me, and I have to close my eyes to keep from vomiting.

  "What about her..." someone starts to ask, then stops.

  "Her what?" Tasha prompts.

  "Her teeth. They're growing everywhere. Even through her hand."

  I force my eyes open again and lift my right hand into my field of vision. Sure enough, tiny shark teeth are erupting through my palm, pushing outward from beneath my skin. As I watch, one falls off and is immediately replaced by another, slightly larger one.

  "Worry about that later," Tasha orders. "Move!"

  They carry me up what feels like a million wooden steps, my body jostling with each movement. Every jostle sends a fresh wave of pain through me, but strangely, it feels... distant. Like it's happening to someone else, or like I'm watching it on TV.

  I drift in and out of consciousness as they load me into what must be a van. The interior is dark, but I can make out medical supplies scattered across the floor—bandages, gauze, what looks like an IV bag.

  "She's still bleeding," someone says as they lay me down on what feels like a camping mattress.

  "That's impossible," Tasha replies, her hands moving quickly as she cuts away what's left of my clothes. "With her healing factor, those wounds should be—"

  She stops mid-sentence, and I hear a sharp intake of breath.

  "What?" Crossroads asks. "What is it?"

  "The exit wounds," Tasha says, her voice tight. "They're massive. She's lucky the bullets went clean through, but they tore up everything on their way out. Her body's trying to regenerate dozens of damaged structures simultaneously."

  "Can you help the process?"

  "Here? In a moving van? With no surgical equipment and basic first aid supplies? The best I can do is keep her stable while her healing factor catches up."

  "If we don't stabilize her, she'll die." Crossroads's voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "Her body's burning through resources too fast trying to heal everything at once. She needs fluids, pressure on the wounds, and something to boost her blood volume until her healing catches up."

  There's a long pause, and then Tasha sighs. "Fine. But hold her down. This is going to hurt like hell."

  Great, I think distantly. More pain. Just what I needed.

  Hands press down on my shoulders, my legs, holding me in place. Someone stuffs a rolled-up cloth between my teeth—my mouth teeth, not the ones sprouting from my body.

  "Ready?" Tasha asks, though I don't think she's asking me.

  "Do it," Crossroads replies.

  There's a moment of nothing, and then pain like I've never experienced before explodes in my abdomen as Tasha packs the exit wounds with gauze. It feels like she's stuffing hot coals into the holes in my body. The pressure shoots agony through my entire torso, from my hips to my ribs, like I've been struck by lightning. I scream around the cloth in my mouth, my back arching off the mattress despite the hands holding me down.

  "Hold her still!" Tasha shouts. "I need to get a compression bandage around her!"

  "I'm trying!" someone shouts back. "The teeth keep cutting through the restraints!"

  Another wave of pain as Tasha wraps something tight around my abdomen, compressing the gauze deeper into the wounds. My vision goes white, then red, then starts to fade to black around the edges.

  Stay conscious, I order myself. Stay awake.

  But it's too much. The pain, the blood loss, the Hypeman burning through my system like rocket fuel. My body has limits, even with accelerated healing and chemical enhancement.

  As I start to slip back into unconsciousness, I have one last coherent thought:

  If I die now, I'm going to be really pissed.

  Then darkness takes me again, but this time it's warmer, softer. Almost welcoming.

  Time skips and jumps, perception fragmenting into disconnected moments of semi-awareness.

  Voices arguing above me. "...can't take her to a hospital..."

  Hands touching my face, my chest, probing my wounds. "...need to keep the bandages tight...still bleeding internally..."

  Someone crying. Is it me? I can't tell anymore.

  The sting of antiseptic on my skin. "...this water is toxic...need to clean everything..."

  A flashlight in my eyes, checking pupil response. "...possible concussion...drowning symptoms..."

  Teeth growing, falling, growing again. A constant cycle of enamel and pain.

  Cold. So cold. Shivering that makes my teeth chatter and my bones ache.

  Then heat. Overwhelming, suffocating heat that makes me thrash and moan.

  More hands, holding me down. "...fever's spiking...infection setting in..."

  Someone's voice, close to my ear. "Fight, Sam. You have to fight."

  I try to respond, but my mouth won't work right. My tongue feels swollen, unwieldy.

  "...breathing's steadier...healing factor's finally catching up..."

  The Hypeman's fire in my veins, spreading outward from my core to my extremities. My skin itches and burns as teeth continue to push through it, my body's confused response to accelerated healing and chemical enhancement.

  I can feel the drug's effects mingling with my natural healing, amplifying it beyond anything I've experienced before. The wounds in my abdomen and face throb with a strange mix of pain and something else—not pleasure, exactly, but a kind of feverish productivity. Like my cells are little workers on a construction site, hopped up on espresso and working triple shifts.

  My blood sense remains in overdrive, picking up on every heartbeat within what must be a mile radius. It's overwhelming, a constant barrage of information my brain isn't equipped to process. I can feel blood moving through veins, pumping through hearts, collecting in bruises and scrapes. I can even sense the distinction between arterial and venous blood, something I've never been able to do before.

  It's too much. All of it. The healing, the pain, the sensory overload. My brain is trying to shut down, to protect itself from the flood of stimuli.

  But something won't let it. Something keeps dragging me back to semi-consciousness, forcing me to endure this bizarre half-alive state.

  I drift in and out, time losing all meaning. It could be minutes passing, or hours. I have no way to tell.