It was a long time before Jacob finally woke. Even after the sedative had worn off, his body ached for sleep and did everything it could to preserve the state of rest it had finally been given. For nearly thirty-six hours, he slept peacefully through many of the aftereffects from such consistent and terrible torture. When he finally opened his eyes, he was quiet and confused. Where was he? How had he ended up here? When had he fallen asleep?

As it began coming back to him in tiny, frustrating fragments, Jacob sat up with a hand over his mouth. He was probably going to be sick, small pieces of his predicament floating by every minute he lingered on the thoughts—until he came to the sudden stop, the end where his Reaper had shown up and then... put him to sleep? Left him in what looked to be a hotel room?

Was this some kind of ethereal waiting lobby for those who died while unconscious and had no time to make their peace? "What the hell is going on?" he muttered, more out of stubbornness than the need to vocalize. His throat was dry as a desert and his tongue was wrapped in cotton.