Grayson woke to the sensation of drowning. He had a skull-splitting headache, a mouth drier than the desert, and the familiar feeling that evoked a foreboding feeling. He lay there for a moment to adapt to the pain. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling of his penthouse bedroom, checking his body.
Limbs? Functional.
Vision? Blurry but recovering.
Memory? Nothing amiss for now.
Judging from the time and date in his light brain, it seemed that he went into a rut.
Morning of the eighth day, and he didn't recall anything from the past few days.
It was completely empty, a blank slate.
This was really concerning.
Grayson dragged himself upright with his muscles protesting in each movement. His bare chest gleamed with dried sweat. He grimaced at the state of himself, but at least he was still wearing pants.
He opened a new display on his holographic screen. The first order of business was always the same after these episodes: damage control.
