Xavier opened his eyes. The ceiling above him was clean, flat, and polished, made of some kind of reinforced metal. The light inside was dim, but not dark—glowing fluorescent bars in the corners gave the room a quiet green hue. It looked like a temporary shelter, but someone had clearly gone out of their way to make it comfortable. It felt… like a home.
The room looked like someone's house, but it was too well-kept and too quiet. A camp, maybe. One built in a hurry, but made for someone important.
He sat up slowly. His body felt... fine. No pain. No stiffness. Just a strange lightness. Like waking up from a long nap, except his head was fogged.
He leaned back against the wall and ran his hand down his chest.
There should've been a hole there.
He remembered Piolet. The punch. The pain. The sound of his ribs snapping like twigs.
He looked down. Nothing. Not even a scar. Not only that, but he was wearing weird clothes that exposed his chest, but covered his back and hands.
