"Rhayne," I call out. "Do you know how to dance?"
She stares at me like I've lost my mind.
"What?"
"I'm not testing your sense of humor."
I point at the pristine white floor with Eventide's hilt.
"You need to cross that room. And the only way to do it without becoming abstract art is to trust what your body feels, not what your eyes tell you."
Silence.
On the other side of the immaculate killing floor, three retractable machine guns are folded somewhere up in the ceiling like teeth in a closed jaw.
Waiting.
The room is alive—I learned that the hard way—and it responds to energetic disturbance.
Sudden movement. Unstable OXI. The wrong pressure in the wrong place.
Rhayne has the Void Link.
She doesn't feel OXI. She is OXI, practically. Her field reads the ambient environment like an extension of her own skin.
If anyone can navigate this invisible minefield on pure instinct, it's her.
I just hope her instincts are faster than the guns.
