The first thing Luke saw was the ceiling.
A muted, off-white surface, adorned with soft ridges and an intricate flowerlike carving in the centre. The pattern curved outward, delicate yet old—like something carved not for decoration, but reverence. His eyes fluttered again, adjusting to the light. It wasn't too bright. Just warm enough to confirm one thing:
He wasn't outside.
He was indoors. Somewhere safe… maybe.
He didn't move at first. His body felt heavy, like it wasn't quite his own yet. His fingers tingled faintly, toes feeling distant. And so, he lay there, still and observant—a trick from old times. The kind of street wisdom born from countless mornings waking up in places he wasn't sure were safe.
Just… listen and look.
The air was still. Cool. Tinted with a faint aroma—herbs? Something medicinal? Or incense? He couldn't tell. But it wasn't blood. That was a relief.
