Roughly an hour later… a knock came soft. Barely a tap.
Don's eyes snapped open like a trap being sprung. His breath hitched— automatic. That lingering, almost feral readiness buzzed in his blood, even before he was fully conscious.
He sat up, elbows resting briefly on his knees. His back ached faintly from the awkward angle he'd slept in—half slouched, half cocooned in the blanket that had twisted around him during sleep.
The room sat dim, streaks of low early afternoon light bleeding in through the edge of the curtains. His dresser, cluttered with the usual—a stray notebook, his remote, a half-finished glass of water—felt still. Dead.
No more knocking followed. Just the faint shuffle of feet outside his door, like whoever had knocked wasn't really here to wake him.
His fingers flexed once, slow, as if testing for damage. Then he sighed. Quiet. Resigned.
