Morning light, sharp and unforgiving, cut through a gap in the charcoal-gray curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It fell across a bed that was far too large, in a room that was far too quiet.

The second thing that registered was the headache. A dull, persistent throb behind the eyes that whispered promises of a truly spectacular hangover yet to come.

And the third thing was him.

The room was a study in monochrome perfection. Polished concrete floors, a sleek dresser devoid of clutter, a single piece of abstract art on the wall. It was immaculate. Sterile. It felt less like a bedroom and more like a very high-end hotel suite, a space curated for appearance, not for living.