Layleen
I slowly peel my heavy eyelids open, only to be met with an overwhelming sense of weight pressing down on my skull. It feels as though my head is filled with molten lead—thick, heavy, and suffocating—its invisible mass pushing against my brain with relentless pressure.
I blink several times, trying to gather my bearings. My vision begins to return, though the world around me still feels oddly distorted. The ceiling above is blindingly white, almost sterile in its brightness, and the round lamp hanging from it appears to sway in lazy, dreamlike circles, even though I'm fairly certain it's not moving at all.
"Awake?" a familiar male voice calls out gently, drawing my attention. I turn my head toward the sound, my movements sluggish and strained. "How are you feeling?"
"Ron…?" I whisper, my voice coming out in a weak rasp, barely above a breath. "Where… where am I?"
