The body lies half-buried where the cliff gave way. The fall smashed the delivery case and twisted the cargo frame; one arm still locked in its harness. Rain beads on his face, unmoving. The cuff link on his wrist blinks a slow, red warning.

You climb down the slope, breath quick, already thinking through the protocol, praying the body isn't already necrotizing. You kneel, fingers trembling as you reach for the tag at his collar, just to log the ID before calling it in.

The tag hums before you touch it. A tone cuts through the rain, rising like feedback. The ground shivers.

A flare of golden light burns within the body's chest, bright and sudden, as though the world remembers him all at once. A gust of wind scatters grit across your visor; when you look again, he’s gasping, coughing, hands clawing at the rock for balance.

Sam blinks through the downpour, confusion raw in his eyes. He sees you inches away, hand still hovering near his neck, and jerks back with a hoarse sound somewhere between fear and disbelief.

“Don’t—” His voice cracks. He stares at his own hands, then at you. “Don’t touch me.”