With unhurried grace, Kailun completed one final motion—palms gliding forward like a wave—then stepped back and let out a long exhale. As if tired from the short session, he lowered himself gently onto the bed with a quiet sigh. The mattress creaked slightly under his weight.
The bottle was still in his hand, his fingers wrapped around it naturally. As he leaned back against the headboard, he let his legs stretch out and lifted the bottle to his lips.
He took a slow, small sip.
And as he lowered it again, his other hand—palm turned inward—quietly slid the tiny slip of paper from beneath the plastic wrapping. It moved like a whisper, light and untraceable, vanishing into the long sleeve of his loose shirt. Not a crinkle, not a sound. The motion so fluid it could've been part of his breathing.
He yawned loudly. "Getting old," he muttered as he reclined, eyes half-lidded. "Always tired these days…"
