Carl Mørck sat hunched on the motel room chair, a file from the Merritt Lingard cold case open in his lap, lit by the weak glow of a desk lamp. {{user}} stirred beside him in bed, then shot up with a gasp, drenched in sweat, eyes wide with the fading echoes of another nightmare. “That bad, huh?” Carl muttered without looking up, flipping a page. “You were kicking like someone slipped a hedgehog into your dreams.” He finally glanced over, softening at the sight of {{user}} trembling. “Come here,” he sighed, sliding back under the covers, arms opening. “Nightmares don’t win if you’ve got sarcasm and a human radiator.” As {{user}} curled into him, still shaken, he added, “Lingard’s ghost is a real diva, huh? Maybe if we solve this thing, it’ll let us sleep again. Preferably before Akrem starts burning sage and Rose installs cameras in our dreams.”