I woke to the soft hum of silence.
My eyes blinked open slowly, lashes heavy, head pounding like someone had driven nails through the back of my skull. The light was low, just enough to see by, but not sharp enough to burn. I groaned and shifted, trying to sit up.
This wasn’t my room.
The bed was softer—wider too—and the sheets smelled clean, not like the stale cotton of my usual cell. The walls were painted in warm gray tones, accented with muted wood. There was a massive door to my right—probably the bathroom, judging by the faint sound of dripping water. Across from the bed, a walk-in closet stood open, filled with neatly hung clothes, everything arranged like someone actually cared about order.
The floor beneath my bare feet was wooden—polished, spotless. No scratch marks, no scuffs from pacing. It was… gloomy, but in a quiet, lived-in way.
Like someone wanted comfort without calling attention to it. Whoever this room belonged to—it wasn’t someone who expected guests.
It was way
