OSWALD'S eyes fluttered open, and a dull, pounding ache settled behind his temples. The room was dim, the only light slipping through the edges of the heavy curtains. He shifted on the bed, a frown tugging at his lips as he pressed a hand to his forehead.

Anger. He had gone to sleep angry. Not even sure what he was angry about. He could barely believe it. That wasn't like him, anger was supposed to fuel him, not knock him out. He let out a frustrated exhale, brushing his hand through his disheveled hair.

The air felt heavy, like the aftermath of a storm, and the memories of earlier, the...