I woke up wrong.
Not wrong like cracked ribs or dried blood on a pillowcase. Not wrong like the time Maki electrocuted the toaster and the whole kitchen smelled like ozone for three days. This was different. This was a frequency I could not name, a low hum in the marrow of my bones that had not been there when I fell asleep.
The ceiling of my room at Onyx House stared back at me. Same water stain shaped like a deformed rabbit. Same crack running from the light fixture to the corner where Bartholomew's terrarium sat. Same immortal snail making his morning pilgrimage across the glass, lettuce leaf clamped in his tiny mouth with the conviction of a man carrying nuclear launch codes.
Everything looked normal.
Everything felt like a lie.
