The noon sun bled through the curtains of Unit 5, a heavy, golden weight that felt far too bright for the state of Mike's mind. For a man who lived by the clock, a man who measured his life in the efficiency of conquests and the precision of his own godlike stamina, the arrival of noon was a glaring anomaly.
It was a silent admission of defeat or, rather, a testament to a victory so prolonged that time itself had lost its meaning.
He opened his eyes, but he didn't move because he didn't need to. His body felt like a temple of spent energy, a heavy, satisfied ache settling deep into his marrow.
He took in the ceiling first; it was the wrong height and the wrong texture. Then the light hit the walls at an angle that belonged to someone else's life.
