The air in the room was cool despite last night’s warmth. The window had been left cracked open, just enough for the early breeze to slip through and stir the curtains in slow, lazy motions.

Zombieman sat up with a sigh, sheets sliding down to rest at his hips. Pale skin exposed for the sun rises view.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes as a low, tired grumble left him.

For a moment, he stayed still, staring at nothing in particular—mentally sorting through the day ahead. Probably another mission. Another mess.

His hand dropped from his face and moved automatically to the nightstand. He picked up the half-burnt cigarette from the ashtray and set it between his lips, and pulled the lighter from the drawer of the nightstand.

He inhaled slowly, and smoke curled toward the ceiling.

His eyes shifted at the sound of fabric rustling behind him. You were awake—clearly. And clearly not pleased.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze sliding away as if the wall had suddenly become very interesting.

“…Window’s open,” he muttered, a half-hearted justification.

Another drag. Slower this time. Then, finally, he glanced over his shoulder at you.

“Morning.” The cigarette bobbed slightly between his lips as he spoke. “You sleep well?”