"Where am I?" he muttered, lifting his head slowly. The world around him felt sterile, too clean, too quiet.
He scanned the space with a dull ache pounding behind his eyes. White walls. White ceiling. No windows just vent high on the walls for air. Cameras blinked silently from the corners, always watching their every move.
The room was oddly domestic for a prison, two neatly made beds sat against opposite walls. A sitting area with a small couch and table. A door that likely led to the bathroom. But the exit, the only real door, was locked tight. Heavy and reinforced.
He tried to move, but his muscles felt stiff. The drugs hadn't fully worn off.
A soft groan caught his attention.
"Song Yaya?" He was surprised to see her there. She stirred awake groaning painfully.
"Son, are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?" She crawled over to his side but he crawled away from her.
