They had been alert for too long.
They are watching his every move. Every breathe.
Malcolm let his head sag forward, chin dropping toward his chest, breath slowing, evening out just enough to sell it. He closed his eyes and let his body go slack like a man finally losing the fight.
Taking his time.
Then he came back into his body by degrees.
Not all at once.
The first thing that returned was sensation, a dull persistent ache threaded through his shoulders and wrists, the chair pressing into his spine, the bindings still biting, still there.
The second was time. He counted it the only way he could, by breaths, by the slow drag of awareness crawling forward while the drug loosened its grip inch by inch.
He moved his fingers.
Just barely.
The motion was pathetic, a tremor more than movement, but it was real, and that mattered. He stopped immediately, letting stillness reclaim him, letting his breathing stay uneven and heavy, the performance intact.
Hours passed like that.
