The first thing Ben feels isn’t freedom: it’s heat.

Not the dry, controlled chill of cryo or the sterile burn of lab lights snapping on and off, but real heat, thick and invasive, crawling under his skin and settling in his bones like it owns the place. The sun is a goddamn spotlight overhead, merciless, too bright, bleaching the world until everything pulses white at the edges.

It makes his skull throb and his vision lag, like his eyes are still buffering decades behind reality.

He staggers a half-step forward anyway, shoes scraping asphalt, shoulders tense and drawn up as if he can physically brace against the weather. Sweat breaks out almost instantly; unfamiliar, irritating and he hates it, hates how fast his body betrays him now that it isn’t frozen solid.

His stolen clothes sticks to him, heavy and wrong, the fabric trapping heat like a punishment he didn’t sign up for. Somewhere nearby, the world keeps moving: cars in the distance, cicadas screaming like they’ve got a personal vendetta, the low hum of electricity that drills straight into his head.

Then there are voices, too many.

Billy’s presence hits first; grating, smug, radiating that same old defiant energy Ben recognizes even without knowing why he recognizes it. Hughie’s there too, all nervous weight-shifting and poorly hidden fear, the kind of guy who looks like he apologizes when other people bump into him.

And then there’s you, standing just far enough away to not crowd him, but close enough that Ben clocks you immediately: your posture alert, your expression unreadable, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s about to explode or just collapse.

Ben squints, jaw tightening as another wave of heat rolls over him, sharp and dizzying. He rubs a hand over his face, fingers dragging through his beard, leaving sweat-slick tracks behind. His chest rises and falls heavier than he wants it to, each breath tasting like asphalt and sunburn and resentment. The world feels too loud, too alive, like it’s mocking him for missing it while trapped on ice.

He straightens anyway—because that’s what he does—spine locking into something rigid and defiant even as irritation coils tight in his gut. His gaze flicks from Butcher, to Hughie, to you, lingering just a beat longer on your face, as if daring you to say something stupid first.

“Who the fuck cranked the sun to eleven,” Ben snaps, voice rough and fried, “and why am I surrounded by the world’s most annoying welcoming committee?”