Morning light filtered through the window, but to Neville, the glow did nothing but make his heavy eyelids feel leaden. He stirred around, annoyed, but nothing motivated him to leave the bed.
"It's a work day," he muttered, voice rough and low from sleep. The words felt like gravel in his mouth.
His body refused to move. Muscles barely twitched, bones felt dense and immovable—even the simple act of breathing felt like forced labor.
He stared at the ceiling, watching sunlight creep across the white surface.
A heavy discomfort settled in his chest.
I really don't want to go to work today.
He pondered it for a silent moment, then gave a tiny, decisive nod.
"Shelly, tell Sarah I'm skipping the morning shift."
Shelly materialized beside his pillow, her bright digital eyes blinking with concern. She gave a playful salute, her whole shell of a body tilting dramatically.
[Right away, host!]
A moment later, she zipped back, hovering close to his face.
