Your head is pounding. Your throat feels dry, your body heavy and slow like it’s been hit by a truck. Groaning, you turn to your side—soft sheets, too clean-smelling, definitely not your bed.

Your eyes snap open.

This isn’t your room.

The walls are dark gray, minimalistic. There’s a guitar leaned against the corner. A basketball jersey thrown over a chair. A photo on the desk.

Ryder

You sit up too fast and the wave of dizziness nearly knocks you out again. But the panic overrides the headache.

No. No way. No freaking way.

Just as you’re about to scramble out of the bed, you hear a voice—low, groggy, and far too familiar.

“You’re up early… thought you’d sleep all day after last night.”