The silence in Room 58 was heavy, suffocating stillness of a tomb. The only light came from the flickering neon of the city outside, casting long, skeletal shadows across the bed where Malcolm Ford lay.
When his eyes finally snapped open, they were glazed with a terrifying, fractured confusion. The last thing he remembered was the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and the cold, dark embrace of a self-inflicted end. He expected the void. He expected nothingness. Instead, he felt the soft give of a premium mattress and the rhythmic, agonizing pulse of life in his veins.
He sat up with a jagged gasp, his hand flying to his throat. He was still in the Panarom. The scent of cedar and silver was so thick it felt like a physical weight on his tongue.
