The deepest hour of the night brought no peace to the master bedroom of Dahmer's mansion. Outside, the sleek glass walls looked out over the quiet, sprawling lights of the valley, but inside the room, the silence was thick, heavy, and constantly broken by the rustle of luxury sheets.
Malcolm was a notoriously bad sleeper. Under the crushing influence of the black-market aphrodisiac that had systematically wrecked his nervous system earlier that evening, his slumber was less of a resting state and more of a chaotic, subconscious battle. His muscular frame was entirely restless. He fidgeted constantly, his broad shoulders tossing against the plush pillows, his chest heaving as his body temperature fluctuated between the residual, burning chemical heat of the poison and the cool draft of the room's ventilation. He mumbled incoherent fragments of business logs under his breath, his brow furrowed in a permanent, tight grimace of defensive exhaustion.
