Zeph woke to the unfamiliar sensation of morning sunlight on his face and the absence of immediate threats.
The apartment was still small, still basic, still had ceilings that his 6'9" frame could touch without fully extending his arms. But it was his, and more importantly, it was safe.
He rolled out of bed—literally rolled, since the mattress was too short for his legs and sitting up meant hitting his knees on the wall—and stretched as much as the confined space allowed.
'Day two of civilization. Let's see if I can manage not to fuck this up.'
The kitchenette beckoned with possibility. He had actual food. Ingredients he'd purchased with credits, not scavenged from ruins or stolen from the dead. The novelty hadn't worn off yet.
