When Mickey woke up, he felt strange.
He lay on his familiar bed, staring at the familiar ceiling.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 p.m., but the light outside was as dark as evening—gray and hazy, exuding an indescribable sense of oppression.
This was his home.
Of course he recognized the apartment he'd lived in for five years.
The painting on the wall was a birthday gift from a friend last year. The scratch on the floor was from moving the sofa. The curtains, half-drawn, were a style he'd chosen himself.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
His head felt groggy, as if it were stuffed with cotton, with the same dullness as waking up after a hangover.
He blinked, trying to sit up, but found his body was somewhat unresponsive, as if he were piloting it through some kind of barrier.
"Mickey!"
A voice called from the direction of the kitchen.
"What are you doing?"
The voice was familiar, so familiar that he felt an instinct to reply.
