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"What kind of being are you? Where do you come from?" Harley demanded into the thick silence, because apparently, she'd reached the stage of life where talking to unconscious, ridiculously attractive strangers counted as a coping mechanism.
The guy didn't respond — which was frankly rude, but also solidly in line with the whole "being unconscious" vibe.
She squinted at him, half expecting a twitch, a sigh, something. When none came, Harley sighed in dramatic resignation and decided interrogation could wait until after his nap—or resurrection, whichever came first.
Dragging a chair across the floor like an old detective in a noir film, she positioned herself by the wall and dropped into what she liked to call her 'vigilant but suspicious' stance. Legs braced. Arms crossed. Walking stick at her side like a medieval weapon of authority. The air around her practically crackled with "I dare you to move."
Her glare could've melted butter. Or souls. Whichever flinched first.
"If you wake up with that smug vampire energy," she muttered, "I swear I'll finish what I started last night."
Harley had a brand of confidence that lived somewhere between chaotic good and unlicensed threat. He hadn't died the first time, but she was fully prepared to make sure he understood the concept of finality if round two became necessary. She even mentally drafted the rules of engagement:
1. Wake up.
2. Be polite.
3. Return any stolen hats
4. Possibly get stabbed again.
A yawn ambushed her. Her eyelids, those treacherous traitors, waged mutiny. Three nights of cramming for exams had turned her brain into microwaved oatmeal. Reality blurred; her thoughts wobbled.
"No, no, no," she grumbled, rubbing her temples. "Can't sleep. Stranger. In house. Possibly undead."
But her willpower was operating on fumes and leftover instant noodles. Sleep crept in stealthily—like a cat with bad intentions.
Her last coherent thought was, if he bites me, I hope he at least washes first.
Then darkness.
When she jerked awake, it was to her own shout echoing through the room. "Awake! Harley! What have you gotten yourself into!?" she gasped, flailing upright like a resurrected jellyfish.
Morning had staged an overly dramatic entrance. The sunlight burst through her curtains like a Broadway spotlight, declaring TA-DA! Shanghai was already alive outside—buses honking, street vendors sizzling dumplings, people marching to work with the grim resolve of overworked history teachers.
Harley blinked blearily at the figure on her floor. "Gosh! I actually slept?!" she scolded herself, scandalized. "What is wrong with me?"
She crouched next to the stranger again, studying him with the same precision she used to measure the exact angle of her eyeliner. He hadn't budged. Not even a twitch.
"Still dead-looking," she muttered, "but in a weirdly photogenic way."
She grabbed her stethoscope—because yes, Harley was the kind of girl who just owned one, and today, that finally felt justified. Pressing it to his chest, she listened. There it was—a heartbeat. Weak. Uneven. Fluttering like a moth trapped behind glass.
"Oh great," she sighed, "you're technically alive but auditioning for ghost status."
She looked up at the ceiling like it owed her answers. "Are you seriously dying again? Because I cannot explain that to the landlord."
A stab of panic fluttered in her chest. "No, no, no. Don't do this! You gotta wake up. I've got classes, a quiz, and zero time to babysit a mystical man with resting hero face."
She tried coaxing him awake with the gentleness of a motivational coach. "You can do this. Open your eyes. Rise, mysterious hottie." Then with less patience: "Seriously, rise. Like, now."
Nothing.
She poked him. Shook him. Even attempted a light tickle under his jaw—a decision that immediately ranked high on her personal list of regrets.
After fifteen minutes of increasingly desperate attempts, Harley sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine, stay unconscious. But if you start levitating while I'm gone, I'm calling Ghostbusters and billing your spirit."
Her gaze darted to the clock. Late. So very late.
"Right," she exhaled. "Time to look like a functioning adult." She dropped the stethoscope onto the table with the kind of flourish reserved for quitting a job you hate. One last look at the stranger—peaceful, pale, heartbreakingly cinematic—and she hesitated.
"Don't do anything weird while I'm gone," she warned, already halfway to the door. "If you wake up and eat my plants, I'm charging you rent. If you talk to my mirror, I'm charging extra."
Silence.
The air was still heavy with incense and faint traces of last night's chaos—like the house itself was holding its breath. Somewhere on the kitchen counter, the small white bottle sat innocently, empty of antidote but brimming with foreshadowing.
Harley stepped into the sunlight, muttering, "Great. I'm officially that girl—'sorry, professor, couldn't do my homework, I was guarding a possibly immortal hottie.' Totally believable."
She took off down the street, backpack bouncing, heart pounding, torn between caffeine cravings and existential dread.
Little did she know, behind her closed door, a faint hum rippled through the room. The air shimmered above the stranger's chest, faintly golden—like reality itself was testing how far it could bend before something unholy decided to wake up.