The first thing that registers is the ache. A deep, full-body soreness that settles into every muscle like it's made a permanent home there. Then comes the light — harsh, too bright, stabbing through the curtains of Y/n's apartment like an accusation.

The clock on the nightstand reads 11:47 AM. The mission had ended at 6.

Y/n's phone buzzes on the floor, half-buried under a discarded jacket from last night. The screen lights up with a message.

Another buzz.

A pause. Then, more gently: