The effects of last night's alcohol still lingered.
Cheap whiskey had been a mistake.
A very clear one.
Five hours had passed since he left the bar.
Yet Messiah Christel couldn't tell what he remembered—and what he didn't.
He was standing on a narrow bridge.
No wider than a ladder.
It stretched between two buildings, suspended in the air.
Five meters below waited the ground.
He raised a hand to block the light.
The morning sun stabbed straight through his eyes, drilling into his skull.
Nausea crawled up the back of his neck.
A heavy sense of sickness followed.
His balance wavered.
His body felt impossibly heavy.
As if gravity itself was pressing down on him.
Little by little, his mind cleared.
He recognized this place.
He checked his phone.
6:03 a.m.