Morning rain traced slow lines down the tall glass window of the hotel suite, soft and steady, the kind that washed the noise out of the city without truly silencing it. Far below, New York moved at its usual rhythm, taxis slipping through wet streets while distant horns rose and faded beneath the low grey sky. A few birds skimmed across the buildings, their calls faint through the glass, and the whole city seemed strangely calm for a place that had nearly burned the night before.
Drogo stirred beneath the sheets.
His eyes opened slowly, the light from the window forcing him to squint as his mind struggled to catch up with his body. For a moment he simply lay there, staring at the familiar ceiling, listening to the rain and trying to understand where he was.
When he pushed himself up, a sharp pain tore through the side of his skull, forcing a quiet groan from his throat as the memory of the fall rushed back to him.
