Danielle woke up with a dull throb behind her eyes and the unmistakable tang of paint still lingering in the back of her throat. She groaned and sat up slowly, only for the room to tilt with a wave of vertigo. Her stomach lurched in response, twisting uncomfortably.
“God, we didn’t air this place out enough,” she muttered to herself, staggering toward the nearest window. She shoved it open, cool air rushing in as she gripped the sill for support.
A soft knock sounded a second later, followed by Christina cracking open the door. “Breakfast’s ready,” she said gently, her voice cautious.
Danielle didn’t answer—she gagged instead, catching the bile rising in her throat and spitting a small mouthful of acid out the window.
Christina frowned, stepping fully into the room. “You okay?”
“Yeah,
