Mark woke with a sharp, blinding pain slicing through his skull like a razor.
He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the sliver of morning sunlight creeping through the curtains.
His mouth tasted like cotton and regret.
His body felt heavy, sore, like he’d been hit by a truck.
It took him a full minute to realize he wasn’t in his bed.
He was on the couch — half-sprawled, boots still on.
He struggled to sit up, the room tilting dangerously around him.
What the hell happened?
He braced himself against the arm of the couch, willing the nausea to settle.
Flashes of the night before came in fragmented pieces — Kyle’s grinning face, the sticky heat of the club, music pounding like a second heartbeat, a blur of bright lights and strangers' faces.
But after that... nothing.
A blank
