Everything was blurred.
Like trying to see through a fogged-up window during a winter storm. Jihoon's eyelids fluttered open, each blink a struggle as the world beyond the haze bled into view.
There was whiteness above–not the fluffy white of clouds, but the harsh, clinical light of the ceiling tiles. Too bright and unreal.
A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, spreading across his skull like waves colliding against stone. His body felt heavy, as if pinned down by an invisible force, while the sheets pressed against his skin with the distinctive scent of antiseptic.
Somewhere nearby, muffled voices filtered through the static in his ears.
Jihoon turned his head slowly, the movement sluggish and slightly nauseating. And the first thing he saw was the thin plastic line snaking down from a fluid bag into the bruised skin of his arm. Then, gradually, the voices sharpened into clarity.
