The next morning's unlight filtered through the partially drawn curtains, casting golden waves across the Poseidon Suite.
Kane sat nestled in a mountain of pillows on the enormous sofa, swaddled in the plushest bathrobe he'd ever worn and wrapped in no fewer than three blankets despite the room's comfortable temperature.
A silver room service tray balanced precariously on his lap, loaded with an assortment of pastries, fresh fruit, and a steaming pot of tea.
"This is how you recover from heatstroke," Kane declared, popping a chocolate-covered strawberry into his mouth.
He flicked through channels on the massive television mounted on the wall opposite the sofa.
"Five-star recuperation. Much better than the Bureau infirmary's plastic chairs and vending machine crackers."
Cyrus stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the ocean stretch to the horizon. He'd been in the same position for nearly twenty minutes, his posture rigid.
