I lie on the bed, a king in a sea of silk and memory foam. My body is a lead weight, exhausted, but sleep is a traitor. It dances just beyond the reach of my heavy eyelids.
I stare at the ornate ceiling. Back in my real life—
Whole days of study and grinding part-time work, then whole nights, devouring Omegaverse novels. Two hours of sleep was a luxury. I craved the escape, the intensity, the feeling those stories gave me. Now I'm living inside one, and the irony is a bitter pill.
I sit up, stretching until my joints protest.
What should I do?
The restlessness is a live wire under my skin. I stand and walk to the balcony.The glass door slides open with a whisper.
The night air is a slap of cold clarity. I step into it, letting the chill sear my lungs. God, why can't I sleep? Even this borrowed, privileged body has its limits, but my mind refuses to power down.
I rub the back of my neck.
I rub the back of my neck. That strange—staticky feeling is there again.
