We are under attack

Sandro wheezed and darted out of bed. He slammed into the wall and grimaced as he heard a crack in his rib.

“I'm dead?” He said, looking at the bright room.

He believed his room was darker than this and wondered where he was.

“Perhaps. It might be better if you had, and that will save us a lot of stress.”

Sandro swirled, and his eyes collided with Blaze, who sat languidly on the sofa with a wineglass in his hand.

“Where am I?” Sandro rasped.

Blaze continued, ignoring his question, “If you were dead, you should be in hell by now because of your tainted heart, but you ain't.”

“Well, smarty-pants, where the hell am I since I am not in hell?!” Sandro glared at him.

“You are in your room, dummy.” Blaze retorted with a glare.

Sandro shot him a glare of his own before gazing around the room.

Blaze was right. He was indeed in his room. Only that more lights had been switched on to make it brighter.

And the curtains were pulled apart, making it chillier.

In spite of his normal body heat, he shi