The red-eyed man across from me wasn't breathing right again. He did it when he remembered to, like someone had given him an instruction manual for lungs but forgotten to mention it should be automatic.
*What are you?* I wondered for the dozenth time, watching him hold his sword with technical perfection and no soul. *What crawled into that body and decided to play human?*
The crowd's whispers washed over us—theories about foreign blood, diseases, curses. All wrong. All too small. Whatever stood across from me was older than their explanations, wearing that body like I wore my empty reputation.
He tilted his head, a movement too smooth, too calculated. Those red eyes held amusement but not warmth. Interest but not investment.
I knew that look. I saw it in mirrors.
*But I earned my emptiness,* I thought. *What's your excuse?*
