The bed beneath you is the size of a small country. The sheets are rumpled, expensive. A shirt you've never seen hangs off your shoulders—black, cotton, smells like sandalwood and something faintly metallic.

Your phone buzzes.

And buzzes.

And buzzes again, the screen lighting up the pillow beside you with a cascade of notifications.

Then you flip the phone over, and the black glass reflects.

It's not your face.