Lyra didn’t sleep the night after the cab. She lay on the capsule mattress, staring at the ceiling’s flickering LED constellations, each one blinking in a rhythm she swore matched her pulse. At 3:17 a.m.—again—the lights outside her window turned the sky into a lattice of red and violet veins. She sat up, heart hammering, and saw her own reflection in the glass. But it wasn’t her. The woman staring back had no pupils. Just black voids,