The morning sun didn't break through the clouds; it merely bruised them, turning the sky above the Industrial District into a slab of wet, grey concrete. Inside the cramped apartment, the air was thick with the humidity of drying clothes and the heavy, metallic scent of gun oil.
Gazelle woke up slowly, her body aching as if she had walked for miles in her sleep. For a moment, she forgot where she was. She expected the gilded cage of Morgan Manor, or the cold dampness of the forest hut. But then she felt the lumpy cushions of Dante's couch and smelled the stale scent of old pizza boxes mixed with cheap coffee.
She sat up, the velvet cloak slipping from her shoulders.
