The light was too bright. King turned his head, groaning low as the harsh white ceiling came into view. The bed underneath him was soft, too soft. Pillows fluffed, sheets smooth, but nothing like the basement he expected to wake up in, he was glad that he woke up.
He sat up slowly, squinting. His shirt had been changed, his wounds were cleaned, well, there weren't wounds more like bruises. There was no tape on his wrists, no cuffs, there was no sign of struggle, just a dull headache at the back of his skull and the faint scent of something lemony in the air.
Where the hell was he? He climbed out of bed. His boots were gone, but they'd left him new clothes. It was crisp, ironed, folded neatly by the door. He didn't bother with them just walked straight to the door in the corner.
It wasn't locked, he opened it cautiously and stepped out into a hallway that smelled like lavender. The floors were marble, the walls had paintings. Everything felt... rich. Polished.
