A soft groan slips from my lips as consciousness returns—slow, reluctant, like surfacing from deep water after being pulled under too long.
My eyes open—or try to. The lids are heavy, each blink an effort, each movement sending faint threads of pain through my skull.
Everything is white.
The ceiling stretches above me, polished and pristine—endless, almost unreal. The lights are harsh, too bright, cutting through the fog in my mind and forcing my eyes to narrow.
For a moment, I think I might be dead. Maybe this is heaven— clean, cold, and empty.
Then I hear his voice.
"Zyren… Zyren…"
Deniz. He's calling my name—soft, desperate—like he's been saying it for hours. Like the word itself is a prayer he's afraid won't be answered.
His voice cracks on the second syllable. Raw—whether from crying or from lack of sleep, I don't know. Maybe both.
