I wake up before the alarm again, which doesn’t surprise me anymore because sleep has turned into something thin and restless that never quite settles, and I lie there for a moment staring at the ceiling while the packhouse breathes around me, pipes clicking softly in the walls and distant footsteps echoing somewhere down the corridor as the early shift changes over. The bond hums low and uneasy under my skin, not sharp enough to panic me but steady enough that I know something is off, so I swing my legs out of bed and pad into the bathroom because routine is the only thing that still feels like mine.
The water takes too long to heat, which irritates me more than it should, and I brush my teeth while waiting, watching my reflection with that familiar sense of being observed even when I’m
