Chapter 87
Sebastian's breath came clipped and hitched, shallow at first, like he'd been drowning in something invisible.
Then, slowly, he exhaled, realizing this was truly his room.
"What kind of shitty dream was that," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse, half disbelief, half awe.
His gaze darted around the space—a gothic expanse of wealth and cold precision.
The shadows of the night still clung to the corners, fighting against the morning light that seeped faintly through the curtains.
Rows of black shoes lined the transparent closet, each one polished to near reflection.
The clothes beside them—pressed, folded, all shades of void—hung like soldiers awaiting inspection. No color, no warmth, only monochrome luxury.
The room itself was massive, the kind of width meant to impress guests, not comfort its owner.
