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DATE:25th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I woke up feeling utterly numb. Every inch of me buzzed like I was wrapped in static, and the light filtering into the room burned across my skin like I was made entirely of blistered sores. I was exhausted down to my marrow.
Somewhere nearby, the faint sound of a TV hummed. I latched onto it, then slowly sharpened my focus.
I could hear the steady, rhythmic clinking of someone eating—distant, but no more than a few meters away.
With effort, I opened my eyes.
I was still there. In that woman's apartment. The couch was beneath me exactly as I remembered; she hadn't thrown me into the street after I passed out.
Halfofmehad expected that outcome, but here I still was.
I tried to push myself upright, but every attempt crumbled under the weight of weakness. My body simply wouldn't respond. My mouth ached as though I'd swallowed gravel.
Mustering what scraps of strength I still held, I managed a ragged "Hey."
The movement in the room paused. Then small feet padded toward me until a voice—high-pitched, unbroken—spoke. "The mummy woke up."
A child's voice. So high up was my head that I couldn't lower it enough to even see him.
Another set of steps came then. Heavier, slower. And she appeared—the woman from yesterday.
Now I could really see her. Chestnut hair that curled messily at the ends. A face dotted with moles. She looked worn down, tired in a way that went beyond a bad night's sleep.
Had she actually cared for me through the night? No... she couldn't have done much for my injuries. They weren't exactly treatable in any conventional sense. More likely, she had been unable to sleep. Maybe paralyzed by silence after what she'd been through. A traumatizing night, no doubt.
"How are you feeling?" she asked gently.
Her voice was careful, deliberate. The kind of tone a mother uses when soothing her child. The kind of voice I had never once heard from my own mother.
"Should I get you some coffee or… I'm not sure it's up to your standard."
"P-ai-nkill…er…" It was all I could squeeze out of cracked lips.
She hurried into another room without hesitation and returned with a jar of cheap aspirin. I recognized the logo—Matthews' company. Which really meant that the dosage would be above any recommended limit.
Matthewswasn't the type to bother with safety regulations, and his clientele weren't the type to pay for the luxury of protected, regulated medicine.
"T-en," I mumbled.
Her eyes shot wide, and for half a heartbeat I thought she'd refuse. But no—begrudgingly, hesitantly, she followed my demand. Ten tablets, pressed into my mouth, the chalk of bitter powder already clinging to my tongue. She returned with a glass and tilted it, pouring water carefully to wash the pills down into my throat.
She left me where I was and went back to whatever she had been doing before—cleaning, I think—but it didn't take long before the pills started to take effect.
At first, my thoughts went blank, like somebody had pulled the plug on my brain. Then suddenly—the numbness was gone. A surge ran through me like adrenaline on fire. I actually felt… invigorated. Clearer. Sharper.
No. That wasn't right. Aspirin doesn't do this.
If I had to guess—
Guess what, exactly? My mind trailed off as I sat up straighter and looked around the apartment.
It was about as average as it gets. A little cramped, a little run down. The furniture was so old it was probably worth being called "vintage" in the current fashion cycle.
Then my eyes caught the container she'd left carelessly beside me on the sofa. I picked it up.
And there was the answer.
No wonder. No fucking wonder I felt "fine." It wasn't three times stronger than normal aspirin, like I'd originally assumed—it was closer to ten. By all rights, the dose I had just swallowed should have been enough to stop my heart.
Anyone else would be dead right now.
But the real question then struck me hard: if this was the strength of what she normally kept in her home, how was this woman herself still alive after taking them?
No matter.
It reminded me of those caffeine boosters I used to abuse moths back. Sometimes a substance pushes you outside your own limits long enough to… open something up.
Maybe this could be the same. Maybe I could manifest something new out of it.
…How, though?
With cocaine, I'd had to hold my breath. With caffeine, it was about running until my lungs burned and emptied out. And then that strange concoction when I'd been kidnapped by the Chou woman—how it had twisted into that brittle-touch ability.
Would this pill push me in some new direction?
Technically, I should already be puking my guts out.
But instead I was—fine. No, more than fine. Springy. Clear as lightning.
I got to my feet. My scars looked the same when I pulled my collar aside to check, but my body didn't feel the same at all. Not weighed down, not heavy or burned out like under Mundi's "miracle" cocktail mixes. This was cleaner. It was—simpler.
A simple drug. A simple reaction.
Sometimes keeping it basic worked better than any supposed genius invention.
The kid was gone. I couldn't see or hear him anymore.
But I heard the woman's footsteps approaching again, the shuffle of her slippers pulling closer from the narrow hallway.
"Thank you for yesterday." She spoke carefully, as if choosing each syllable like it might explode between us.
"No problem," I murmured, checking the creases of my suit as if straightening myself restored some control.
"You're… feeling much better than I thought you would."
"Pills don't really work on me. I have to take a bigger dosage," I said while brushing some lint off the sleeve. My hand brushed my pocket, where the folded 37 Zols still sat like a reminder of last night's… procurement.
"I didn't steal anything," she blurted suddenly, as if afraid I'd accuse her.
"It's not like I had anything on me worth stealing to begin with."
"You can stay longer if you want. I really am grateful," she said.
I doubted the sincerity. Was she single? Why else would a woman offer something like that so freely? Gratitude alone doesn't usually extend into hospitality for strangers you picked up bloody off the street.
"No, I should probably go." I took three steps toward the door, but then cocked my head back. "Actually, do you have a car?"
"Yes… but it's quite old."
So? Was that supposed to matter to me, like I was judging aesthetics?
"No matter. I need a pharmacy. Just drop me there, and then we'll both be on our way."
"Ah… alright."
She faltered, not knowing how else to respond, so I gestured toward the exit as if to set the rhythm of things.
"You don't want me to at least make you breakfast?" she asked timidly.
Ehh. Wouldn't hurt.
"Actually, why not. Make me an egg, or something simple."
I slid into a chair near the kitchen—open-plan, all in the same room—and let myself sink into it, watching as she rushed to the fridge.
She tried to mask it, but I caught the faint tremor in her hands, the uneven little gestures.
"You're scared, right?" I asked, halfheartedly, more as an observation than accusation.
"What? No, no…" she answered quickly, trying to bluff her way through. Her tone betrayed her just as her shaking had.
"I get it. I do look suspicious."
"No, you really don't," she insisted, pulling a pan from under the counter.
"Come on, you don't have to fake it. I can handle an insult. I'm ugly, right?"
"No, it's really not that." She struck the match, lighting the stove. The little flare stung her hand but she didn't flinch.
"Then what is it? Be honest with me."
She froze mid-motion, the egg trembling in her hand before she turned to face me directly.
"I… you… kind of died yesterday. And now you're alive?"
"What do you mean, died?" I asked, though the weariness in her face told me she wasn't joking.
"You… you collapsed, and…" She stumbled over her words. "I'm a nurse. I panicked, so I checked your pulse, but your heart wasn't… it wasn't working. There was nothing. And now you…" Her breathing quickened.
Wow. So that dream really was something. Explaining it to her, though, would take a miracle.
"You didn't call the Civil Militia, right?"
"What? No. I… I wanted to call the morgue after I dropped my son off at school, but before that you—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. Right. She probably would've been fined or worse if she mishandled something like that, so her hesitation made sense.
"Yeah, it happens sometimes," I said casually.
"What do you mean it happens?!" Her voice sharpened, horrified.
"My heart sort of… stops?" I tried, shrugging. Even to my own ears it sounded ridiculous. "It's from that accident."
Her nurse's eyes narrowed, skepticism written all over her face. As if she would just accept that flimsy excuse.
"I'm sorry for asking, but what kind of… accident was it?"
As if she'd even know what Ventium was if I told her.
"Hero attack?" I blurted, then corrected myself quickly. "Villain. Sorry. Doesn't really matter anymore. I'm alive. Isn't that what counts?"
"And… your roommate?" she asked, lowering her eyes to the frying pan like she wasn't even sure why she cared.
"Well, she was my girlfriend. Past tense. I downgraded her yesterday. She left me to walk ten kilometers alone—in this state." I gestured at myself. "Criminal, right? After all the times I stopped her from committing suicide too."
The woman froze, clearly startled. Great, more misunderstandings.
"It's—I didn't cause her to be suicidal," I clarified quickly. "That wasn't what I meant to say."
"No, I get it." But her voice was tight. Too quick. She cracked the egg over the pan as though retreating into the simple ritual of cooking was the only way to escape my words.
"Nah, you don't get it. She's… full of issues. And the truth? I liked her at first because she was useful to me. But after a while, she started to become more of a burden than anything else."
"Well, I don't want to interfere with your relationship," she said carefully, her brows furrowed, "but perhaps she realized that you see her as a burden."
Did she just try giving me tips? She was losing the plot. Maybe I hadn't been direct enough.
"No, no, she was suicidal even before we got together. You see, her mentor was killed and—" Kind of hard to paraphrase this… "She realized that no one really cared for her. He was this big… author. His first book pulled her out of misery when she was a child. So she wanted to dedicate herself to being an author too. Eventually, she even became his assistant. But after he died… she felt like she lost her entire purpose. No confidence in her… writing anymore."
"Your girlfriend is an author? Can you tell me one of her books? I'm sure it's not that bad," she said as she slid the runny egg onto a plate and handed me a fork.
"Yeah, I didn't really bother to remember them. Anyway, the real issue isn't her lack of confidence." I scoffed as I stabbed into the meal. "Truth is, she never even liked writing in the first place. She only did it because she associated that mentor with the good times she remembered. So now it's no wonder her skill is slipping."
She sat opposite me, still frowning. "I think she's just… feeling down. She couldn't possibly hate writing if she dedicated so much of her life to it."
I let out a laugh, sharp and joyless.
"You don't get it. She didn't dedicate her life to writing. She dedicated it to him—her mentor."
Her face went pale, lips parting like she'd pieced together something she hadn't wanted to.
"You…"
I didn't let her finish.
"It's really unavoidable. But still—to take it out on me? Isn't she the cruel one?"
"You… Did you kill her mentor?"
Now that was impressive. She was supposed to be a nurse, right? Clearly the wrong profession. She should have been a detective instead.
I couldn't help but grin. Her expression was worth every second of it.
"Wow, you could tell?" I teased.
She almost slid off her chair, her body recoiling as though the table itself had turned venomous.
I lifted the plate, shoved the entire egg into my mouth, chewing with satisfaction while keeping my eyes locked directly on her.
She was horrified—and I enjoyed every flicker of terror that crossed her face.
"Don't get me wrong," I said, my voice casual, almost conversational. "We didn't even know each other when her mentor died. It wasn't even anything personal."
"No, stop." Her voice was weak, cracking under the weight of every word. I could see the way her lips trembled, the way her body stiffened like a small animal cornered.
"But you see," I went on smoothly, ignoring her, "a lot of eyes were on me at the time, so I figured I'd get closer to her as a sort of shield. The next thing you know—she fell in love!" I barked out that last part, almost screaming it, relishing the way she flinched.
"So at some point we moved in together, and then… she learned the truth. She kicked me out. But—" I leaned forward slightly, putting weight behind each word. "Not even a month later—"
"Stop. Please don't continue this." She cut me off, her voice trembling, terror gleaming in her eyes.
Her reaction? Honestly a bit much. What difference did it even make to her? She didn't know the girl. For all she knew, I could have been lying my ass off—which, in a way, I was. Well, half of it. But she didn't need to know where fact ended and fabrication began.
I wondered if this was less about the story and more about the memory of me crushing a man's trachea in front of her. Maybe that horror set the lens. Maybe she saw truth in whatever I said, even when the words dripped with contradiction.
"Sure teaches you something though, doesn't it?" I continued, watching her face. "She begged me to come back. Because to her, I meant everything. Can you imagine that?" I laughed, sharp and joyless, letting the sound echo far too long in the cramped kitchen.
She just sat there frozen.
From behind me, I heard the sound of small steps—the child, curious, listening. But her eyes darted over my shoulder in a flash of panic, and then I heard the footsteps retreat. The kid understood enough to turn back. Not my problem.
"And you know the funniest thing?" I asked, leaning back now as if sharing some grand joke. "Her uncle—yeah, her uncle—knew everything. He was aware, and he now considers me the best thing for her. That I keep her alive. That I saved her!" The absurdity cracked out of me in laughter I couldn't suppress. Bitter, violent laughter.
"I… I'm not…" she whispered, her voice fraying toward tears. Did she think I meant to hurt her next?
"Look, I did do some good. Don't get me wrong. I saved her uncle once, in a… fire. I stopped her from committing suicide, not once, not twice, but three times. Hell, her uncle's a… businessman, and I saved everyone in his…. company once during a supposed…. gas leak."
I said it flat, tracing dents in the old ceiling with my eyes as I idly twirled the fork in my hand.
"But sometimes, lady, I wonder if it actually compensates for the bad. Maybe what I am now—this broken, unnatural thing—isn't luck. Maybe it's my punishment for everything I've done."
The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered to the ground, the sound far too sharp in the silence between us.
"But you know what?" I said, eyes narrowing, voice lastingly calm now. "This fucked up world still keeps me alive. It forces me to keep breathing. To keep committing more sin. At that point… isn't it God's fault?"
This time, I was serious.
And she had no response. Nothing but the weight of her silence.
I scoffed, pushing myself to my feet and jabbing a finger toward the door.
"Satisfied? Just drive me already."
Still trembling, she grabbed her keys, followed me outside, and unlocked a beat-up twenty-year-old car. She slid into the driver's seat while I climbed in beside her. The way she jolted when I closed the door told me her nerves were strung tight enough to snap.
"I'm not going to kill you," I said flatly, but the words seemed wasted, bouncing off her without meaning. She wasn't hearing me—not really.
Her hands quivered on the wheel, knuckles pale. At this rate, she'd get us both mangled in traffic if I didn't steady her.
"Lady!" I barked, grabbing her hand before she could turn the ignition. Her wide eyes snapped toward me, rimmed with fright. "I'm too far up the ladder for you to even think about reporting me. Didn't you hear me earlier? You drop me off, and then you're free. Simple as that."
She shook her head frantically, as if she could erase the whole situation with denial. I released her hand, leaning back against the seat.
The engine rumbled to life and the ride began—bumpy as hell, every pothole and crack in the aging machine screaming at us.
Our destination was one I already had in mind: the pharmacy owned by Matthew, the one nestled conveniently close to Zenik Academy. I have some unfinished business at that school.
On the surface, the excuse was simple. I could use the spot to crash for a while, find a spare bed, and escape the chaos.
But deep down, I knew better.
I wasn't going to rest.
I was going for answers.
The bed would just be a bonus.