The morning after the pulse was weird.
Not weird like supernatural-catastrophe weird, although that was definitely happening too. Weird like... everything felt slightly off, like the air in the penthouse had a texture it didn't have before, thicker and heavier somehow.
I noticed it when I tried to make coffee.
The French press Azryth had gotten me, the one I'd pretended wasn't a romantic gesture, took twice as long to brew. Not because anything was wrong with it, but because my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Not from cold, not from exhaustion, although I was running on zero sleep and pure anxiety fuel, my hands were shaking because the binding wouldn't settle.
