The room was pressing down on me. Every time I tried to open my eyes, the ceiling swam, bending and shifting as though it wanted to slide off the walls. My body felt both burning and frozen, trapped between waves of heat and sudden chills. The blanket clung to me, damp with sweat, but when I pushed it off even an inch, shivers wracked me so hard my teeth clattered.
I'd called Kazuo not long ago.
It took everything I had only to form the words. My throat burned, my tongue felt heavy, and every sentence came out too slowly. I had to pause between phrases, gathering strength, pretending that I was fine. That nothing was wrong.
"I… I won't be able to come in today," I said. "I think I caught a cold," I managed. "I'm really—really sorry… I'm so sorry."
I kept repeating it, as if saying it enough times would somehow make things better.
Kazuo listened in silence. Then he sighed. "You've had too much on your plate lately, Luka," he said gently. "You should rest. Really." There was a brief pause, and then concern crept into his voice. "Do you have anything at home? Medicine, at least? I could come by and bring you something if you need it."
"No—no," I rushed to say. "It's fine. I have everything. Don't worry." I swallowed hard. "I'll just stay in bed for a day," I added. "And then I'll be back. I promise."
Another silence. Longer this time.
Then Kazuo exhaled softly. "Alright," he said. "Drink plenty of water and sleep as much as you can. Don't worry about anything else."
And then the call ended.
But I felt like I had done something wrong. Like I had betrayed him somehow.
After our last conversation, my own body chose the worst possible moment to fall apart.
Now Kazuo was probably convinced I was pretending to avoid him.
Time slipped sideways after that. I continued drifting in and out of some uneasy sleep, where shadows crawled along the edges of my vision. My ears twitched helplessly against the pillow, and I couldn't even summon the strength to hide them. I pressed my tail close to my chest, trying to use it as a blanket.
Dreams tangled with fever. In one, something slammed against the bar's door, over and over. Voices shouting: Freak. Get out.
In another, I was in the street, caught in headlights. A crowd stood around me, pointing, laughing, shouting. I had no mask, no hoodie, nothing that could hide me. Then countless hands grabbed me and started pulling me down, trying to press me into the asphalt. I began to choke, tried to shout something, yet no sound came out.
Then I woke up. My heart pounded against my ribs.
For a while, I lay there, staring at the cracked paint of my ceiling, telling myself it was just the fever. Just my mind playing tricks. But then came the knocking.
The sound rattled through my thin door, echoing in the apartment. My breath caught. My hands clutched the blanket tighter.
They'd found me!
I couldn't move, couldn't call out, couldn't even breathe right. The knocking kept going. My mind flashed with images of that video, of the helpless hybrid on the ground, people around him laughing as they kicked. My stomach churned.
Then silence.
I don't know how long I lay there waiting for the door to break in. The shadows blurred again, and sleep pulled me under before I could decide whether to fight or pray.
When I woke next, it wasn't to fists, but to coolness against my forehead. A wet cloth, carefully pressed down. Fingers brushing at my hair, pulling strands away from my face.
"Come on," a voice murmured. "You need to wake up for this."
I blinked hard, once, then again, trying to force my vision to focus, trying to understand who had just spoken. Through the blur and the darkness of the room, I made out a figure sitting at the edge of my bed.
A dark shape.
Dressed in black.