He’s a fireball. A screaming, burning, dazzling comet. He plunges through the last bit of atmosphere and streaks toward the ground. Outside, people are yelling in the streets. Some have their phones lifted high to track his descent. Others have their hands over their ears, their heads ducked as if to protect themselves. Shattered glass is scattered all over the road—broken windows, I realize, from Mirage’s sonic boom. The pane in front of me is broken too, and wind is curling through the frame and batting at the curtains.

My eyes follow the comet overhead but my brain is stalled, trying to figure out what’s happening. This must be another construct. Mirage must be giving me an outside view of him as he crashes. I don’t know why he wants me to see it this way, though. Maybe to distract me, or maybe so it won’t seem so terrifying.

But—the people. They aren’t flat holograms. They’re running, shrieking, gasping, pointing. I thought Mirage said he couldn’t replicate a sentient being in a construct?

Above their heads, the comet that is Mirage shrinks suddenly. Half of him breaks off and burns to ether. The rest is seconds away from gouging a new crater into a hill in the distance when it folds in on itself, flares brighter than ever, and then … crumbles into nothingness.

The last bit of Mirage burns away seconds before he hits the ground.

Something inside me twists hard at the sight of his death, and my own. I wonder if this construct is somehow protecting my consciousness, letting it live for a few more seconds after my body is already burnt up. I lift a hand to pull the curtains aside so I can get a better view of the streak of slate-gray smoke that’s still emblazoned on the sky—and then I freeze, the back of my left hand hovering in front of me.

The black veins are gone.

I turn my hand over and open it. Only then do I realize I’m holding something. It’s about six inches long, jagged-edged, warped and damaged but smooth on the top like it’s made of glass. It’s transparent, but the faintest trace of a motionless rainbow sheen is still glazed across its surface. I remember something snapping off in my hand—a piece of Mirage’s floor.

Through the shard, I can make out the Being sting in my palm. The injury looks magnified, showing every detail, as if the piece of floor is a lens. The circle of white flesh is still wreathed in black veins, but they’re much smaller and confined to my palm rather than streaking across my whole body. The skin on my arm and hand is a healthy tan, not gray. The wound still hurts, but it’s a faint, bone-deep ache now, not a wave of unbearable agony.