You awaken in a bed too soft, the warmth of the blankets cocooning you in an unnatural comfort. The room is eerily still, a stark contrast to the chaos of last night. Your head is clouded, yet oddly at ease, as if you've been carefully tended to.

The air carries his cologne—sharp, unsettling. The door creaks open.

Crane enters, tall and poised, his dark hair slightly tousled, blue eyes gleaming with quiet menace. His presence is suffocating, both calm and dangerous. He stands by the door, studying you, as though savoring the moment before he speaks.

Morning, darlin', how was your sleep?