Strass wasn't sure how much time had passed.
All he knew was the weight. Heavy. Full-body. Like he'd been filled with sand and left to rot in the sun.
His limbs were numb, tingling faintly, with the kind of sluggish static that came with coming down from something. His head swam.
He groaned.
Movement felt like suggestion, not action. When he finally managed to open his eyes, he saw nothing. Darkness, full and unrelenting.
He shifted his head—barely—and felt it.
Cloth. Rough against his skin. He was bagged.
His breathing was shallow, uneven. The air around him tasted faintly metallic.
Then… music.
It drifted in from somewhere ahead. Warm, slow. Scratchy from age. A low-soul croon bleeding out of a speaker that had seen better decades.
"You see me… standing there…"
It was Sam Cooke. Older track. The kind you don't play unless you're in the mood to remember someone.
