My growing rage was stalled by the sound of approaching footsteps. I noticed with some interest that the emotion had been stored away — compartmentalised — leashed and ready to be recalled at a moment’s notice. My mind was now taken with curiosity at the richness of tone and detail my new ears picked from this sound that I was fair certain I would not have heard at all with my old ears. There was more there, too. Information that my brain did not yet know how to process, but would learn with practice. And quickly. The sound of breathing joined the cadence, staccato, shallow and frightened. And a heartbeat, small and quick like a bird’s, but not weak. A new sound, metal on metal, key in lock, and the door sprang open. There stood the pit master, thick and wiry and, to my new eyes, clearly inhuman. In his arms, my little girl. The rage within barked and snarled, but I saw his hand at her throat and I held fast to its leash.