The silence didn't feel right.
Zubair's eyes opened slowly to shadows pooling in the corners of the ceiling. His chest rose once, then again, uneven and shallow like he'd surfaced from deep underwater.
The room was still. Stale. And it stank like a locker room full of gym clothes.
He blinked, his eyes blurring for a second before going back to normal, then he sat up.
The sheets beneath him were soaked. The pillow damp beneath his head. The air inside the bedroom felt thick, like it hadn't been stirred in days. He rolled his shoulders. Nothing cracked. Nothing ached. Even the dull throb in his arm from the infected wound had vanished.
He pressed his fingers to it, expecting pain. There was none. No crusted blood. No scab. Just skin—smooth and warm.
Too warm.
Zubair looked down at his arms. At his chest. Every inch of him radiated heat, like a furnace just below the surface. Not the icy fever of infection. This was something else. Something… internal.
