Morning crept slowly into the apartment. Faint, warm streaks of light filtered cautiously through the window slats, sliding along the walls as if trying to touch the parts that the night had quietly concealed. The house was still asleep, but something in the air already pulsed with the rhythm of awakening—like a body preparing for its first breath of the day.
Lennox Graves opened his eyes exactly three minutes before the alarm.
There was no surprise in his body, no resistance—he was already used to the new rhythm. Waking up was no longer a chore, but an ingrained movement. He sat up, slipped silently from the bed, and walked barefoot across the cool floor without putting on anything. His movements were quiet but deliberate—and somewhere deep inside, another kind of readiness vibrated. On
