He was just about to give in to sleep's comfortable embrace when he began hearing voices.
Faint, muffled, distant at first—like whispers swimming beneath a lake.
They drifted closer as he sank deeper into drowsiness.
At first, the words were indistinct. Just murmurs, echoing somewhere between thought and dream. But then, as his body grew heavier, the voices sharpened—became clearer, louder, angrier.
"WAKE UP AND GO TAKE A BATH!"
Avin froze, halfway between dream and consciousness.
That voice—
He knew that voice.
Every tone, every note of irritation burned into memory.
"I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO SLEEP ON THE SHEETS I WASHED WITH YOUR SWEATY BODY!"
The echo hit him like a bucket of cold water.
His mother.
Not his real one—Clive's mother. The woman who had raised the boy whose body he now wore. The one whose son had been taken, replaced by him.
