The blinds were only halfway drawn, and sunlight had already begun to sneak in across the wall by the time Ethan opened his eyes. It was late—past ten, maybe closer to eleven—but no alarm chased him out of bed. No sprint to the car. No pre-match brief waiting at the training ground. Just Tuesday.
He stayed still for a moment, not from laziness but from something else. Quiet. No phone in his hand, no system prompts blinking. Just stillness and breath.
Downstairs, he moved slowly. Not out of grogginess—he wasn't tired—but with a pace that didn't need to rush. He dropped two slices of toast into the slot and let the kettle run. The toast burned slightly at the edges. He scraped it without much care, then loaded both pieces with peanut butter that clung in clumps. He didn't correct it.
He took the plate and mug to the small table by the window and sat cross-legged. The coffee was a little bitter. He drank it anyway.
Afterwards, he reached for the notebook.
