The morning light crept through the gaps in the blackout curtains like an unwelcome houseguest, thin golden lights stretching across the room, reflecting into the water in the tub.
Neville gradually became aware of it, but didn't want to wake up. Then, his light brain rang a cheerful alarm tone in contrast with how he actually felt.
Every muscle in his body ached, his legs—no, not legs, his tail.
Neville's eyes snapped open, and the bright ceiling greeted him. He blinked several times, half-convinced the events of yesterday had been some kind of stress-induced hallucination.
But he was faced with the delicate fins along his tail, which moved along the movements of the water, caught the morning light, and scattered rainbow patterns across the white walls.
He couldn't help but stop deluding himself about reality.
"Still here then," Neville muttered, his voice hoarse, possibly from screaming too much.
