Leon took a breath and stepped barefoot into the obsidian flames.
There was no warmth. No burning.
At first.
Then the fire spoke.
Not in words—but in sensation. The moment his skin passed through the veil of flickering black flame, something inside him was unmade. The fire didn't consume flesh—it searched memory. And it found everything.
The very first blow he'd taken from Kragg—the hammer-punch that cracked his shoulder.
The shock of his ribs bending.
The torque in his spine when he redirected force.
The moment his forehead slammed against carapace.
All of it—replayed in full fidelity.
Not images.
Not sound.
But pure, tactile memory.
The Shellfire ignited his nervous system. Every pain signal returned in pristine, brutal detail—flooding back as if happening now.
Leon fell to his knees.
Muscles spasmed. Bones ached with phantom impact. He gasped as his body writhed—not from damage, but from truth. He was reliving his battle—but not as memory.
As data.
Don't resist.
