A low hum from the television seeped through the apartment walls, murmuring distant drama, laughter, and advertisements. It was the only sound in the room besides the faint rustling of cloth and the subtle scratch of bare skin against the cold, tiled kitchen floor.
Kaidren lay sprawled across the floor, unmoving, his limbs slack like a puppet with cut strings. The weakness debuff still lingered in his body, like a phantom vice squeezing the strength from his muscles. His cheek was pressed against the tiles, the chill slowly seeping into his skin.
Then, a twitch.
His right index finger flexed with the smallest motion, like a spark dancing back to a dead ember.
He noticed it—how the nerves in his hand prickled faintly, like they were finally thawing from a long freeze.
It's wearing off, he thought, the idea arriving not with excitement, but a dull acknowledgment.
