The alarm went off at four-thirty and I wanted to commit murder.
Not figuratively. Genuine, premeditated, first-degree murder against whoever invented the concept of mornings. My body felt like someone had replaced my muscles with overcooked linguine during the night, every joint protesting the basic act of sitting upright. The ceiling stared back at me with the same bland indifference it always wore, completely unbothered by my suffering.
Four hours of sleep. Maybe less. The conversation with Hikaru had eaten into what little recovery time I had left, and while I didn't regret a single word of it, my spine had opinions about the matter.
I rolled out of bed and hit the floor with the grace of a tranquilized rhino.
Right. Thursday. Training with Vale. The man who believed that appropriate mentorship involved throwing first-year students through walls and then lecturing them about form while they lay in the rubble.
