The hiss of the Coffin door opening. The wet tug of NerveWires retreating from his skin to their cubbyholes. The glowing blue lights, the hum of the machine, the real world expanding to life above him. The pain was there, in every part of him, but not nearly as bad as it had been in the Sleep.

A face stared down at him. Then there was a flash, a glint of light on steel.

Michael was up in a rush. He battered the arm to the side just as it came at him with the knife, then kicked out with his leg, catching the man in the face. Michael scrambled out of the Coffin, following the man’s descent, jumping on top of him, his blood pumping with adrenaline. He punched him, then saw an arm coming again, still brandishing the weapon. Michael brought his elbow up, felt the cold blade, the bright sear of pain. He swung his fist around and knocked the knife out of the man’s grip.

Run, he thought. He was done fighting. All he wanted to do was run.

Michael pushed himself to the side, tripped as the man grabbed his foot, kicked him off, scrambled to his feet, started running. He was inside that massive room, surrounded by the balconies of Coffins. He could see the doors through which he’d entered. Michael fixed on the exit and ran for it.

Then, in a blur of pain, his face cracked against hard tile. He was on the ground; his attacker had jumped on him from behind. Michael flipped onto his stomach, arching his elbow around as he did, connecting with the man’s jaw. He cried out and fell off, clutching his face, but landed a kick to Michael’s stomach as he did. Michael curled up, clutching himself, coughing. His entire body still ached from the ordeal inside the Sleep, and now a new wave of nausea broke over him. He crawled to his feet and struggled against a spinning world.

His attacker was on his feet, breathing heavily, and Michael got a good look at him for the first time. He was familiar, but before he could place him, the man charged, rage painting his face dark. Michael planted his feet. He had no time to flee, and the man slammed into him, sending them both flying to the ground again. Michael kneed him in the groin, scrambled out from under him. He stood up, stumbled away, looked back. This had to end.

Michael noticed what he hadn’t before: one of the guards who’d died earlier was slumped in a chair, blood covering his face and chest. At his feet, there was a gun. He sprinted for it. He could hear his attacker yelling like a lunatic. Michael slid toward the chair like a ballplayer for the win and grabbed the weapon, twisted around to aim.