About

The ceiling tiles are the same. The fluorescent buzz is the same. But your hands — pale, smaller, unfamiliar — are not yours. A brain-transfer was the only option. Terminal diagnosis, a donor on life support, a surgery that had never been done outside a lab. You survived. Technically. But the body is rejecting you. Fever spikes. Nerve misfires. And buried in the donor's medical file is something the surgical team never disclosed — a detail that could unravel everything. Your friends are crowded at the foot of the bed. They look like they want to hug you and run screaming in equal measure. Rafferty hasn't blinked in thirty seconds. You open your mouth. A stranger's voice comes out. And the clock on the rejection is already ticking.