[Location: Mercedes - Jurgen's Room]
[Time: Morning]
[Atmosphere: Quiet, heavy, lingering tension.]
Jurgen's eyes snapped open to the muted brown of a wooden ceiling, the grain swimming faintly as his vision struggled to settle. Awareness returned in fragments — light first, then weight, then pain. His body moved before thought could assemble; he forced himself upright in a sudden, strained motion, every muscle protesting with a dull, lingering ache, the remnants of yesterday's conflict etched deeply into him.
His hand found his chest at once, pressing against it as though to confirm something still held together beneath the surface.
The room came into focus slowly. His gaze moved across it with quiet urgency, searching for coherence in the aftermath of a memory that refused to arrange itself.
The last he recalled was the old man, Nemesio's presence beside him, and Viktor turning away with that same impatient finality after seizing his document. Beyond that, nothing remained — no transition, no return, no sense of passage. Only this abrupt awakening, as though the intervening moments had been severed cleanly from time itself.
Silence enclosed him completely.
His palm rose to his face, covering his eyes as he exhaled through a weary tension, fingers dragging downward in a slow, grounding motion. Even his breathing sounded intrusive here, amplified against the stillness, as if the room itself bore quiet witness. Another breath followed, uneven, carrying the faint residue of adrenaline that had yet to leave his chest.
He shifted, pressing his hands into the sheets beneath him, guiding himself to the side of the bed with deliberate care. The movement faltered at first, his balance uncertain, but steadied gradually as he settled. Morning light slipped through the thin curtain in narrow, slanted streaks, casting long, subdued shadows that stretched across the floor without motion or disturbance.
A small wooden table rested beside the bed, positioned beneath the window. Upon it, a single candle burned low, its flame steady but diminished, wax gathered thick at its base — evidence that it had endured through the night.
The conclusion required little effort. Someone had brought him here. The thought lingered only briefly; he lacked the energy to pursue it further.
For a moment, he allowed himself stillness, letting the quiet settle into him, letting his body remember existence beyond strain and violence.
Then, without warning, something intruded.
It was not pain, nor sensation, but a pressure, subtle yet insistent, like a memory forcing itself through a barrier never meant to yield. It arrived unbidden, without thought or invitation, carrying with it a clarity that felt disturbingly intentional, as though it had been waiting for this exact moment to surface.
A vast field unfolded beneath a pale, endless sky. Wind moved steadily across it, bending stretches of vivid green grass in slow, deliberate waves. Scattered formations of stone broke the uniformity of the land, rising in irregular shapes that seemed almost placed with purpose rather than chance. Though he could not see himself within it, there was an unmistakable familiarity — a quiet, unsettling sense that he belonged within that expanse.
And ahead, just at the edge of perception, a figure stood.
The presence was immediate, defined not by detail but by an undeniable weight. Even before form fully resolved, it commanded attention without effort.
Golden hair stirred freely in the wind, catching the light in soft, shifting strands. A loose white shirt draped to the wrists, moving naturally with the air, paired with black trousers that fell without restriction, simple footwear barely disturbing the ground beneath. The stillness surrounding him was not emptiness but composure— deliberate, complete.
A long white coat rested across his shoulders, its fabric falling nearly to his ankles, responding to the wind with a measured grace. Broad, structured shoulders gave the silhouette a quiet authority, reinforced with subtle gold accents that traced the edges with restrained precision.
At the back, a sun emblem stood distinct against the white, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost alive, as though it held more than mere design.
One hand held a wide-brimmed hat, its shape unusual, rounded at the crown, smooth and deliberate, as if crafted with intention beyond appearance. It remained steady despite the wind, the gesture itself effortless, controlled, betraying no strain. Nothing about him sought attention, yet everything demanded it. He did not move to be seen; his existence alone ensured it.
His face remained obscured, yet the smile was unmistakable.
It carried a warmth that transcended distance, radiant without force, a quiet certainty that settled rather than overwhelmed. It felt less like an expression and more like a presence in itself — something steady, unshaken, and strangely familiar.
Jurgen's breath caught faintly as the image pressed deeper into him.
His eyes closed again, fingers resting against his brow as though that might push the vision back into whatever place it had emerged from. The effort proved futile; the impression lingered, etched with a clarity that refused to fade.
"…Who was that…"
The words slipped out softly, dissolving into the stillness almost as soon as they formed. He had not fully grasped the thought before the sound came, a knock against the door, sharp enough to fracture the quiet. It followed again, then once more, measured, deliberate, before ceasing entirely.
His gaze shifted toward it, drawn by the interruption. The handle caught his attention briefly, unmoving, yet suddenly significant in the silence that followed. Fatigue still weighed heavily on him, dulling the edges of his awareness, but the insistence of the knock had anchored him firmly back in the present.
For a brief moment, he remained where he was, unmoving, as though deciding whether this, too, belonged to reality — or if it was merely another fragment waiting to reveal its true nature.
A slow, measured exhale slipped from him, drawn deeper than necessary, as though he were attempting to empty more than just air from his lungs. The thought of rising, of crossing the short distance to the door, carried a quiet resistance.
He had no desire for interruption, no tolerance for presence beyond his own, not now, not while his body still bore the weight of yesterday and his mind had yet to settle into anything resembling clarity.
His hand drifted back toward the bed, searching until it found the shirt left behind him. His fingers closed around the fabric, sluggish in their movement, each motion dulled by lingering exhaustion. What should have been a simple act — pulling it closer, preparing to dress felt drawn out, deliberate, as though his body refused to engage in anything that required even the smallest measure of effort.
The cloth itself seemed heavier than it ought to be, its weight less physical than perceived, a quiet reflection of the state he found himself in.
"Who's there?"
The words emerged low, restrained, his voice carrying a faint roughness, as if it had not yet fully returned to him. It lacked force, not by intention, but because the strength to give it more had not surfaced.
The knock came again.
Firm. Unwavering. Unconcerned with his condition or his reluctance. It landed against the door with the same measured insistence, neither hurried nor hesitant, as though the one behind it had already decided they would not leave without acknowledgment.
Something tightened subtly in Jurgen's expression, the faintest shift, irritation beginning to press through the haze of fatigue.
"Who's there?"
This time, the question carried an edge. Sharper. Less patient. The exhaustion remained, but it no longer softened the tone; instead, it gave it a brittle quality, like something worn thin being forced to hold.
Silence answered him.
No voice followed, no indication of identity, no attempt to explain the persistence. Only the quiet remained, briefly restored.
Then another knock threatened to break it again.
A faint click of his tongue slipped free, restrained but unmistakably irritated. He remained where he was for a moment longer, weighing the possibility of ignoring it entirely, of allowing the silence to reclaim the space despite the intrusion pressing against it. But the rhythm of it, the steady refusal to withdraw made the outcome clear. Whoever stood beyond that door had no intention of leaving.
"…Tch."
The sound lingered under his breath as he finally gave in, pushing himself upright. The movement was slower this time, less abrupt than before, his body resisting even as it complied. His shoulders settled slightly forward, not in defeat, but in quiet reluctance, as though even maintaining posture demanded more than he was willing to offer.
He moved toward the door in unhurried steps, each one measured, grounded more by necessity than intent. The room seemed to stretch faintly in that moment, the distance insignificant yet felt, his awareness narrowing with each step until only the door remained within focus.
His hand reached it at last.
Fingers rested against the handle, pausing there for the briefest moment — not out of hesitation, but as though marking the boundary between the stillness he had occupied and whatever waited beyond it. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned it.
The door opened with a quiet creak, the sound soft but distinct against the silence that had lingered just moments before.