Johnny came to like someone had just lit a match right beneath his eyelids—a slow burn spreading through the back of his skull, following the curve of his spine, and into every fucked up nerve in his body. For a moment, he thought it was just the Relic kicking into gear again, glitching his being into existence like a digital echo of the man he used to be. He took a breath, deep enough to fill the lungs behind his ribcage, long enough to realize just what it all meant.

Fuck.

He could actually taste the air around him: Cold. Recycled. Heavy with disinfectant.

He was alive.

Johnny groaned, dragging a hand over his face before lingering at his jawline. His skin felt wrong. Too solid. Too real. There was stubble under his fingertips, a pulse that throbbed at his neckline. For a long, empty second, he just sat there, staring down the length of his body like it belonged to someone else.

And then the panic hit.

V.