Your head pounds.

The last thing you remember is the alley. The wrong turn. The figures in the dark. The sound that still rings in your ears like a second heartbeat.

You're lying on something soft. A bed, you realize. King-sized, silk sheets, the kind of mattress that costs more than your monthly rent. The ceiling above you is vaulted, painted a muted cream, a crystal chandelier hanging dark and still.

The room is enormous. Masculine. Dark wood paneling. A fireplace, unlit. Heavy curtains drawn tight over windows you can't see through.

You're still in your clothes from last night. Your jacket is gone. Your shoes are placed neatly by the door, like an afterthought.

Your phone is not on the nightstand.

You sit up too fast. The world tilts. Your hand presses against your temple, and that's when you hear it—

A voice. Low. Calm. Closer than you expected.

You're not alone.

"I'd sit still if I were you."

He's standing by the window, half-turned toward you. Tall. Dark suit, no tie. His silhouette cuts against the dim light filtering through the curtains.

You don't remember him being there a second ago.

"Concussion," he continues, like he's discussing the weather. "Mild. You'll be fine in a few hours. Headache will linger."

A pause.

His eyes are on you now. Dark brown. Unreadable. They sweep over your face once—once—like he's cataloging something. Checking for damage.

"If you're going to be sick, use the bathroom to your left. Don't ruin the rug."