~Narrator’s~

“You should be dead,” the doctor mutters as he adjusts the IV line. “Or at least unconscious for another six hours.”

Reo Cuss blinks slowly, though his vision is still fogged. The ceiling above him tilts, swims, then clears just enough to show the crystal molding of his guest room. His breath is dry and shallow. His throat aches like he swallowed dust. His head? Pounding. Worse than any hangover he’s ever had.

He shifts, and the pain tightens in his chest. Something tugs at his arm.

IV.

Private saline drip.

He’s not in a hospital. He knows this ceiling. These walls. The scent of leather and eucalyptus. He’s...