Morning came in thin layers.
Not light first, but sound. A truck braking somewhere below. A door closing two floors down. Water moving through pipes in a way that suggested other people were awake and already late for something.
Timothy opened his eyes without checking the time.
The ceiling above him was blank, the same pale surface he'd seen every morning for years. No screens. No projections. Just a faint seam where two panels met. He lay still and listened until the sounds settled into background noise.
No alerts.
That mattered.
He rolled onto his side, pushed himself upright, and sat on the edge of the bed with his feet flat on the floor. The apartment was cool. He stayed there longer than necessary, hands resting on his thighs, breathing steady.
Eventually, he stood.
The shower ran hot and quiet. Steam gathered against the glass, blurred the edges of the room. He didn't rush. He didn't think. He let the water do its job and nothing else.
