Cassian Moretti had been feeling off for days now.
Usually, that sort of thing didn't last. He worked his frustrations the way he worked everything else; methodically, violently if necessary. A good sparring session, bruises blooming across his knuckles and ribs, the sharp clarity of pain cutting through the fog. It usually helped clear his head.
This time, it hadn't.
He woke each morning with the same dull irritation humming beneath his skin, like a static he couldn't tune out. He didn't think it wasn't exhaustion. His sleep had been uninterrupted, deep enough that he remembered fragments of dreams, senseless images that evaporated the moment he opened his eyes.
Still, the feeling followed him. An itch at the back of his mind.
