The ceiling of the Las Vegas hotel suite was white.
High. The specific height of a ceiling that costs something to have above you, the distance between your face and the plasterwork communicating 'this room is not apologizing for itself.'
Raven looked at it.
The morning had arrived while he wasn't watching — the quality of light coming through the blackout curtains had changed from nothing to something, the thin lines at the edges going from black to grey to the specific gold of a desert morning that meant the sun had been up for a while and was not waiting for anyone.
He didn't move immediately.
The bed was large. Expensive sheets. The kind of thread count that translated into a specific weight against the skin. His body was warm in the particular way of a body that runs warmer than it should — not fever, not exertion, just the constant internal temperature of whatever he was now.
He reached sideways.
Found nothing.
