Chapter 84: Morning, With Poison Still Singing in Our Veins
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I came back to consciousness like a stone reluctantly surfacing from the bottom of a dream-drenched ocean. Limbs heavy. Skull fogged. Mouth dry as a desert wrapped in a drought. And most importantly—alone.
No Kimchi cling-wrapped around me. No Sophia curled at my side with predatory affection. Just me, a bed, and the echoing aftermath of Sophia's pharmaceutical war crime masquerading as a cocktail.
Groaning like a man whose liver had filed a resignation letter, I shuffled toward the bathroom, half-mummified in blankets and regret. Morning rituals were accomplished through sheer mechanical will—teeth, face, soul, all scrubbed. I emerged from the bedroom a slightly less dead man.
Then it hit me.
A scent.
Warm. Savory. Culinary euphoria made solid. Like hope had taken up frying eggs downstairs.
