The morning after felt suspiciously like a hangover.
A soul-deep, bone-aching hangover, without any of the fun parts that were supposed to come before it.
Michael woke up on a couch that felt like it had been designed by someone who hated human spines.
Every muscle in his body was staging a small, painful protest.
He blinked, the sterile, gray light of the safe house a dull ache behind his eyes.
For a moment, he had no idea where he was.
Then it all came flooding back in a tidal wave of bad memories and worse decisions.
Conduit Zero.
The heist.
The virus.
Kael's smug, punchable face.
And Jax.
He sat up with a jolt, his muscles screaming.
From across the cavernous room, he heard a low, theatrical groan.
Jax was laid out on a high-tech medical bed, his leg encased in a shimmering, blue cast that looked like a piece of alien technology.
He was alive.
He was also, apparently, very bored.
"Morning, sunshine," Jax grunted, not opening his eyes. "Did we win?"
