Jian woke up blinking gently. His eyelashes fluttered against the soft light above. For a moment, everything was out of focus—the ceiling blurry, the room hazy like it had been washed over with fog. But then his eyes cleared, and the ceiling came into sharp view.
That ceiling.
He blinked again.
It was familiar. The pale off-white color, the small hairline crack running from the corner to the fan mount, the slow rotation of the old ceiling fan creaking softly above him.
He knew this place.
His eyes widened slightly, confusion washing over him in slow waves. He shifted on the bed, sitting up with effort. There was no weight on his limbs, no blood drying on his hands, no grime on his skin. He looked down at his palm. His fingers were pale, long, and spotless. Clean. Almost too clean. No bruises, no bloodstains, not even a trace of the fight he remembered.
Jian stared at his hands in silence. He turned them over, palms facing him, then down again.
