Kurt immediately regretted it the moment he opened his eyes.
His head throbbed like someone had used it for drum practice, a dull, persistent ache that radiated from his temples down to the base of his skull.
He groaned, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead, and blinked against the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains.
The room was small but clean. Soft sheets, burgundy wallpaper, a nightstand with a lamp. It wasn't his room at the guild. Not anywhere he recognized.
"Right," he muttered, sounding tired. "A bloody heads-up would've been nice," he said to the system, but, predictably, it gave no response.
Kurt sat up slowly, his body protesting every movement. His muscles ached, and his joints felt stiff. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his face, trying to piece together how he'd ended up here.
His mind ran through scenes: The Foxhole. Sam. Mary. Burning mansion. And finally the sudden flash of memories.
