I wake slumped in the caramel-leather seat, a monster headache rattling in my brain, my tongue thick in my mouth. Things have changed. The club is humming. Small clusters of people—five or six per group—huddle at their tables, talking, eating, drinking. Vidhan is opposite me ensconced in his own chair, grinning.

“How ya holdin up?” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah. Figures.”

I look around, trying to get my bearings, to reset, but the windows are all blacked out, giving no indication of time. “How long have I—”

“Two hours.”

I blink at Vidhan, groggy and confused, trying to banish the anxiety worming in the pit of my stomach. Across the room, at the bar counter, I see Malik and Akuji. They’re locked in a debate and I get the feeling it’s about me.

Malik glances up and our eyes meet. Akuji follows his gaze. I feel her suspicion like knives thrown across the room.

“I don’t think she likes me,” I say to Vidhan.

“Kuji? Ah, hell. She doesn’t really like anyone.”

I pick up the saltcellar and begin rolling it around on its base, looking at the others in the room. Many of them seem younger than me, but only by a few years. Others are older, but no one looks beyond twenty. Yet, something in their demeanour—a resignation, a steadiness in their gaze—tells me they’ve seen things and maybe even done things that have stolen their innocence.

“Pathfinders,” Vidhan says, watching me.

“Everyone’s so young.”

“Falling takes a toll and the human body is bloody fragile. So, if ya see a Pathfinder over the age of twenty, most likely they’re a master. Or they’ve Settled.”

“Settled?”

“They choose a world and stay there. Don’t Fall so much.”

“Falling,” I say. “Masters. Seven worlds. I can’t get my head around it.”

“No kiddin. How much has Malik told ya?”

“Nothing that makes any sense.”

Vidhan shakes his head. “Bloody figures.”

“I mean, look at you,” I say, pointing at the leather-strapped blade handle rising from his belt. “You carry weapons. You’ve got these weird names for things and strange codes. How does it all work, Vidhan? The multiverse? Falling?”

“Whaddaya wanna know exactly?”

“Everything.”

“Thought as much.”

Vidhan snatches the saltcellar from my hand and, with surprisingly deft and slender fingers, unscrews the top and upends the contents onto the table. Dragging his forefinger through the salt, he sketches a circle. Linked through this, a second, and another, and another, until he’s drawn six overlapping rings and then, through the centre of them, he draws a seventh ring. The result is a beautiful design. A perfect, geometric, flower-shaped pattern, like a multiplying cell.

“Not doing it justice like this,” he says. “The multiverse is more of a three-dimensional construct. But hey.”

He drags a dotted line around the image. Then labels each circle with a number and a name.