Z
Zane woke before the alarm and lay still, staring at the ceiling of the penthouse as if it might offer something useful.
The room was quiet in the expensive, insulated way he had once found reassuring. Floor to ceiling glass. City lights dimmed by distance. Climate controlled air that never quite felt like air at all. He had chosen this place years ago because it required nothing from him. No maintenance. No noise. No explanation.
This morning, it felt strangely hostile.
There was a faint awareness of his own body that irritated him, not pain exactly, but presence, as though something that usually stayed obediently in the background had stepped forward without permission. His breathing felt deliberate, slightly heavier than it should have been, the rise of his chest registering as effort rather than reflex.
