After Hours
"Hey—sorry, you can’t sleep here. We’re closing up."
Dæmon opened his eyes to the ceiling of a co-working lounge, its exposed beams glowing faintly under the last lights of the evening. The receptionist’s voice was kind, but firm—well-practiced. She stood a few feet away, holding a tablet against her chest like a shield.
He blinked slowly, adjusting to the shift. The dream had felt close. Tangible. Some part of it was still vibrating behind his eyes.
"Right," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Sorry. I must’ve dozed off."
"It happens. But you’ve got to head out."
He sat up on the low, comfortable sofa—far more inviting than the sterile desks surrounding it. The space had emptied out. Gone were the day’s quiet hums of keystrokes and whispered Zoom calls. It was just him now, and the overhead fluorescents ticking toward silence.
The meeting. Whoever he was supposed to meet—he must not have shown. Or Dæmon had missed it. Either way, there was no sign anyone had come looking.
He gathered his things in a daze. The receptionist waited with professional patience, tapping at her tablet.
Outside, the city exhaled a deeper quiet. He stood under the awning and summoned a rideshare.
Still half-inside the dream.
Still unsure if he’d truly left it.
