Kenjiro woke up the next morning, pushed himself upright against the pillows, and immediately froze. His fingers brushed against a band of cool black velvet wrapped around his throat.
"Oh. Right," he muttered, tapping the tiny silver dumbbell charm resting over his collarbone. "I forgot about this thing."
He rolled his shoulders experimentally. Then he twisted his torso to the left, and to the right. Nothing cracked. More importantly, that constant, crushing pressure at the base of his spine—the feeling that a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound ghost was trying to rip through his skin from the inside out—was completely gone.
He threw the covers off and practically bounced out of bed, stretching his arms high above his head until his joints popped.
"Finally," Bombom breathed out, grinning at the ceiling. "No back pain. And better yet, I don't have to listen to that meathead in my head screaming BIRL every five minutes. Should I be worried that it's too quiet in there? Nah. Not a chance."
