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Xander's eyes opened to silence and he blinked slowly, disoriented, his body stiff like it had been folded too long inside a cardboard box. The ceiling above him stretched pale and smooth, painted in that forgettable cream tone most houses used back when they still pretended to care about resale value.
He sat up, squinting in the half-light, it was just an old lamp shinning against pale-blue wallpaper-the kind of color his mother used to say felt "calm and cosy." There were white curtain trims, a wardrobe in the corner, and a dresser lined with picture frames that nearly stopped his breath.
'Wait a minute...' he thought with a frown.
Why the hell did this room look so damn familiar?
He swung his legs off the bed, feet sinking into soft carpet with the exact pattern he used to trace with his toes as a kid, while listening to jazz on Sunday mornings and wondering if pancakes meant his parents weren't fighting to the death that day.
