My eyelids felt as heavy as stone blocks, fused shut by a thick, heavy exhaustion. Pushing them open was a physical battle, and the moment I did, a sharp, blinding fluorescent light pierced straight through my corneas and mapped a path of pure agony to the back of my brain.
I groaned, a dry, raspy sound that barely caught in my throat, tasting like ash and iron. I blinked rapidly, tears pricking my eyes as the world swam in a hazy, nauseating blur of stark whites and pale blues before the acoustic ceiling tiles overhead finally came into focus.
The air smelled entirely wrong. It wasn't the crisp, damp scent of pine and dirt, or the suffocating metallic tang of the open clearing. It smelled sharp, chemical, and completely sterile. Bleach and burning ozone.
Twitching my fingers, I felt a
