I was expecting, maybe, eight hours of sleep. Max. That was usually my upper limit before my brain started spiraling into overdrive about homework I wasn't doing, system missions with threatening timers, or whatever fresh psychological warfare Lincoln High had cooked up for the day. My mental alarm clock was a certified asshole.
But ten hours?
Ten.
That was straight-up coma territory.
Hibernation. Bear-mode.
Like my body had filed a PTO request and blacked out before I could say no.
When I finally surfaced, it wasn't like a gentle rise to consciousness—it was a drag. Like my soul was being yanked up from the bottom of a lake with concrete boots. Everything was sore. My muscles felt like I'd run a triathlon on a tilt-a-whirl, and my eyes refused to open without protest.
The house was dead silent. Which was weird. Eerily weird.
