With one hand, she covers Krissana’s eyes. With her connection, she conjures the sensation of a scalpel gliding across Krissana’s stomach. It goes at a measured pace; it is impossibly thin and impossibly sharp, and she imagines its body would be more incandescent than any metal, the punitive glare of a sun. Then there is pressure, and the edge penetrates her skin. It doesn’t, not truly. Her intellect is not absent, she knows this is illusory. But the flesh is primal, and her system reacts as if she has been physically cut. She tenses against the pain, the electric impulse, and the phantom
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