Mikhail coughed—once, twice—then gasped, eyes flying open like he'd just broken the surface of deep water.
The breath that tore from his lungs was dry and cracked, like it hadn't been used in hours. His chest rose sharply, sweat slicking his shirt, his claws twitching. The scent of old wood and tea still lingered in the air—but faint, like memory.
His head throbbed. His bones ached. But it wasn't the pain that jolted him.
It was her.
Medusa.
Sitting across from him, back resting against the windowsill. Her dark silhouette carved against the glow of morning. The sun outside shone gold, brushing over her shoulder like the hand of a lover. She didn't even look at him. Just stared out—silent, composed, watchful.
He blinked, confused. "What the hell…?"
She didn't turn her head.
"Good morning, sunshine," she murmured dryly. "You've been out for quite some time."
He sat up too fast, wincing, teeth gritted. "What happened?"
