The first sensation was lightness. Not gentle relief, but the terrifying absence of substance. Peter's eyelids fluttered open to the familiar velvet gloom of his childhood bedroom at his mother's mansion—darkness so profound it could have been midnight or mid-eclipse. He lay still, cataloging his own body. It felt… hollowed out. Unmoored. Not the pleasant buoyancy of his Eros form, but the eerie weightlessness of a soul untethered from flesh.
Every nerve ending hummed with a low, electric thrum, registering the shift of air currents against his skin with hyperhuman precision. This wasn't him. This was something wearing his skin like borrowed armor.
Hospital. His first rational thought. Given Linda Carter's penchant for panic rooms and private physicians, he should've woken up blinking under sterile fluorescents, wired to machines that screamed catastrophe.
