Rue Anarchie, Auberge du Coq Doré, Room 207.
Lumian tossed the wrinkled newspaper onto the table and slumped onto the bed.
After a few moments, he collapsed onto the mattress. Exhaustion coursed through his veins, making it nearly impossible to resist the urge to sleep.
He reset his body and mental state each day, but never his mind.
Too tired to bother undressing, he kicked off his leather shoes and closed his eyes.
Lumian slept deeply, dreamless.
The acrid scent of sulfur roused him from his sleep. The sun was still setting outside the window.
Lumian turned his head to gaze at the glass window, tinged with a golden-red hue, and whispered sarcastically, "Could it be that I've slept for a day and a night?"
It was clearly impossible; he always woke up automatically at 6 a.m.
Though the obituary had helped vent the sorrow in his heart, Lumian still felt somewhat despondent.
