One by one, I crushed Mateo's bones to mirror my old injury. The Devil had given me details: the spinal damage, the specific vertebrae. I mimicked it all with divine precision. When I snapped his lower spine, the jolt ran up my arm like a song of victory.
Mateo thrashed, tried to shift, and crawled feebly at the dirt. But his body was becoming mine; paralyzed, broken, and voiceless.
When it was done, he lay limp, whimpering, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Just a gurgle of a voice now. Just like I used to be. Just like everyone remembered me.
I touched his forehead one last time. "You look perfect."
And then, with a thought—I teleported us both.
The woods vanished and my room reassembled around us in a blink. Familiar scent: incense, antiseptic, cold metal from the braces, and old equipment that lined the shelves. Rosario had cleaned it that morning. Always dutiful.
I set Mateo, no, Luis—into the wheelchair.
