Logan's POV
"This isn't real either."
The words are a dry rasp, my last defense against the madness of reality. This perfect, sterile apartment feels like a coffin and I'm the dead man in it. I think. No, I know. I died. And Elliot shouldn't be here. He's not— he's not my partner. He's not my friend. He's not—
"What isn't real, my love?"
The voice is different this time. Softer. Cultured. It slides into my ears like silk, and my blood runs cold. I don't want to turn around. I know that voice. I hate that voice.
Despite my better instincts telling me to run, I turn.
I'm sitting on a thick, woven picnic blanket under a star-strewn sky. The air is warm and smells of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and night-blooming jasmine. The sounds of laughter and quiet conversation mingle with the sound of flutes weaving through drums somewhere nearby. There's a cup of warm spiced wine in my hand. The fruity, tangy taste of it coats my tongue. A Melee.
