"Failure." "Traitor." "Executioner." The labels slithered through the air, oily and insistent, coiling around real Draven's ears like parasites wanting in.
A living man would flinch. Shame, that resilient weed, tried to root deep. For half a blink, he could feel phantom iron at his throat, cold and unyielding.
But Draven was ready.
Beneath his coat, etched along the ribcage, runes glowed a muted cobalt—self-hypnosis matrices he'd inked during lonely watch-nights months ago. One rune flared, signaling the first mental lock. Compartmentalize. The entire illusion compressed, forced into an invisible box behind his mind's eye. A second rune pulsed: Seal. The box shuttered tight, shame sealed in with it. The collar's sensation disappeared like steam in a gale.
He stepped forward—physically through the hallucinated dock—and the judges dissolved into fog under his boots. Their angry chorus cut to silence halfway through another decree.
