Not the scratchy, damp cardboard you’d become accustomed to. Not the unforgiving concrete of a Musutafu backstreet. This was a mattress. A real one. The scent of clean cotton and faint, earthy detergent filled your nose instead of rot and ozone.

Your body ached with a deep, familiar exhaustion, but it was a clean ache. The grime was gone from your skin. You were wearing clothes that weren’t yours—a soft, grey t-shirt and sweatpants, both slightly too large.

The room was dim, lit only by the late afternoon sun filtering through slatted blinds. It was spartan. A dresser, a closed door, a single framed photograph on the wall too far away to make out. The air was still and quiet, save for the low hum of a refrigerator from somewhere beyond the wall.

The last thing you remembered was the cold seeping into your bones, the world tilting, the edges of your vision going dark in that alley. The surrender.

A floorboard creaked softly outside the room. A shadow passed by the thin line of light under the door.