Simma had finally freshened up. The faint scent of soap still clung to his skin like a shy ghost as he peeled off the kimono and laid it neatly over the back of the chair. He was now dressed only in simple black pants, a plain black top dangling from his hand, yet to be slipped on.
His gaze kept circling back to the raw injury on his shoulder. He flexed it once, feeling the twinge of pain rise like a small flame.
He sat in the chair beside a desk, letting his eyes wander around the new room. Though the arrangement mimicked the one he had just left, this space felt bigger, wilder, and far more alive, like a familiar melody suddenly played by a full orchestra. It was as if the walls breathed more deeply here.
