Zeph woke to sunlight streaming through a window that had actual glass.
For exactly three seconds, his body didn't know where he was. His hand moved automatically toward the space where his axe should have been, muscles tensing for the threat that always came with morning in the ruins—scavengers checking for easy targets, monsters that hunted at dawn, structural collapses from overnight settling.
Then awareness caught up to instinct.
Safe. He was safe.
The panic drained away, leaving something that felt almost like embarrassment in its wake. He forced his hand to relax, focusing on the sensation of actual sheets against his skin instead of the tarp and rubble he'd gotten used to.
One look at the date on his digital bedside clock told him he'd slept for three days straight!
Three days without waking once to check his perimeter. Without jolting awake at phantom sounds. Without the constant low-grade awareness that sleeping meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant death.
