The following morning, Silver stirred with a dull ache thrumming behind his temples—a rhythmic, metallic pulse that felt like the grinding of rusted gears within his skull. He dragged himself toward the glass, blinking at his reflection through a hazy, post-fever fog. He looked much the same as always, yet there was a heaviness in his joints that hadn't been there before, a residue of a dream he couldn't quite grasp.
"Hmm... where did this red smudge come from?" He traced the faint, crimson stain on his lip with a puzzled fingertip, staring at the reflection of a man he barely recognized. "Did I neglect to wash it away in my fever?"
