The digital clock mocked her, the red numbers bleeding into the sterile darkness of the penthouse.
47:58.
Forty-seven hours and fifty-eight minutes.
Yanna sat perfectly still on the edge of the massive black bed. She had not slept in twenty hours. The heavy, dark duvet was pushed aside. She was entirely naked, her skin a mottled, healing canvas of yellowing bruises, fading purple welts, and the stark, black-and-red burns of the C.N. and the 0-0-0-1 barcode.
Without the three-pound tungsten plug anchoring her pelvis, without the thick leather collar choking her neck, she felt terrifyingly light. She felt like a balloon whose string had been cut, drifting dangerously toward the ceiling of her own shattered mind.
47:59.
She stared at the door.
I am a void, she whispered to herself, her voice a dry, unused rasp. I am empty space awaiting the Sovereign's architecture.
The door handle turned.
48:00.
Camille walked in.
