Nikolai heard a faint chattering in his ear. He could feel himself lying on the freezing cold dock, but at least he was dry. Seawater slowly dripped out of his ear, but he couldn't breathe. His lungs screamed for air. Suddenly, a strong force was delivered onto his chest.
Nikolai sat up, vomiting out most of the contents in his gut. He hacked and spat, the acidic sting of bile coating his throat and tongue. His vision blurried, the world wobbling between the dull gray sky and the weather-worn planks beneath him. Once he had steadied, Nikolai took a look at his savior. It was Liu.
"Breathing?" He asked, concerned.
"Yeah." Nikolai coughed. "Thanks for saving me."
"Very foolish. Swim in clothes." Liu reprimanded. "If you want swim, then take off. You sink like rock!"
"D-did you hear it too?" Nikolai asked, blinking the salt out of his eyes.
"What hearing? There is nothing. Only hearing is you go splash."
"Oh..."
"Nikolai is sick...up there?" Liu asked, pointing to his head.
"No! I'm not. I'm not ill," Nikolai said, defensively. "Thanks for helping, Liu, but I have to go."
Liu pursed his lips. "Ok. Nikolai go."
Nikolai staggered to his feet, every joint aching as though the sea had wrung him out like a rag. His clothes clung to him, heavy and cold, dripping steadily onto the dock. He swayed, catching himself on a post before he could collapse again.
I'll be fine.
Although he wasn't feeling fine—his chest still burned, the faint chattering in his ear hadn't left, like a swarm of locusts just beneath the surface of the water. He tried to shake it off, but the whispers only seemed to echo louder, reverberating inside his skull. Each footfall seemed too loud in the silence of the docks, as though he were intruding on a world that had gone eerily still. One step. Two steps. Three. He was already past the dockyard now. The streets were only occupied by the occasional passerby. Some whispered about the state of the young man that had passed them.
"Xun."
A voice came from a nearby alley. Nikolai spun his head around, searching for the source. But there was nothing, just as before, and just as there always won't be. He ventured in, only to find rotting pieces of garbage soaked in rainwater. The stench permeated into his lungs. Nikolai balled his fists, nails digging into his palms.
"FUCK! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!" Nikolai screamed in primal anger, relentlessly punching a nearby wall. He only received bloodied fists and silence in return. A few people shot nervous gazes in his direction, but most simply ignored him, assuming it to be the ramblings of a madman, or perhaps a drunkard.
His skin had split open against the brick, pain flaring hot through his arms. But the pain only deepened the hollowness in his chest. His ragged breathing echoed off the empty alley, each exhale steaming in the chill air.
For a moment, there was nothing but the throb of his fists and the ringing in his ears. Then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Someone was approaching.
Nikolai froze, his breath disappearing into the wind. Each sound was measured, echoing against the stone like a metronome. Not hurried, not cautious, just steady.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nikolai turned around. A figure appeared, each step striking the cobblestones with that same unshakable rhythm. But it was not who he expected.
"Nastya?"
She paused, almost surprised at hearing her own name.
"Hello? Who's calling me?"
Nikolai blinked, his chest still heaving, his fists raw and dripping. For a moment, he thought his mind had tricked him again.
"You're... real, right?"
She remained by the alley entrance.
"Who's speaking to me? "
"It's me. Nikolai. I-I was just at the funeral home."
Her head tilted at the sound of his voice. "Nikolai... Oh! You were speaking to my sister earlier. I remember now."
"Yes," Nikolai said with a trembling voice. "That was me."
Nastya's cane tapped lightly against the stones as she stepped closer into the alley. Her eyes, pale and unfocused, searched the air in his direction. "You sound hurt. What happened?"
He glanced at his hands, blood seeping between his fingers. "Nothing worth worrying about."
She took a step forward, the tip of her cane tapping lightly against the stones. "Your voice says otherwise."
A bitter laugh escaped him, almost a cough. "You're good at reading people."
"I notice what I can." Nastya's lips curved faintly, though the expression didn't quite reach her eyes.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The distant sound of gulls carried through the fog.
Her cane touched the damp brick wall beside him, and she paused. "You're bleeding. I can smell the iron... and salt."
Nikolai swallowed hard, staring at her outstretched hand hovering faintly between them, not quite reaching out to him, but waiting.
He stared at her hand, the faint tremor of his breath caught in his chest. A part of him wanted to take it—to let himself be steadied, even for a moment. But another feeling pressed harder than the pain in his knuckles, even more so than his desire for stability. He pulled back slightly, the motion stiff.
"...Thank you," he said, voice low but firm. "But I can make it on my own."
Her hand lingered a second longer before she let it fall gently back to her side. She didn't push, didn't protest, only tilted her head at the sound of his voice, as though trying to memorize it.
"As you wish," Nastya said softly.
Nikolai forced a thin, unsteady smile, though he knew she couldn't see it. "Thank you. But I should go. Before people start wondering."
With that, he stepped past her, the cold evening air wrapping around him like a shroud. His wet clothes clung heavier with every stride, but he didn't look back. He couldn't.
"Coward."
Ignore it. Ignore it. Nobody's there. Just ignore it.
But the word lingered in the air like frost.
"Pretender."
His steps quickened. The fog was thicker here, swallowing the lamplight until it bled into halos. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, hiding the sting of his wounded knuckles.
"You should've just died."
Something moved at the end of the street. Nikolai's heart lurched as he saw the outline: a figure slouched forward, dripping, its steps irregular yet deliberate. A faint glimmer of seawater trailed from its feet.
"You should've died. Not him."
Nikolai stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing on the slick path. "Stop," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "Stop it. Please."
He forced himself to breathe, but every inhale was shallow and trembling. His vision flickered; for a moment he thought he saw a face under the hood of fog—a pale, water-swollen face he recognized. He blinked hard, and it was gone. Only empty air and a stretch of wet street.
The chattering rose in his skull again, like insects chewing through the inside of his head. It made his vision pulse at the edges. His stomach turned.
"Stop—stopstopstop!" Nikolai clamped his hands over his ears, pressing until pain blossomed. But it didn't stop. It vibrated in his teeth, searing into the backs of his eyes.
"SHUT UP! YOU'RE NOT REAL!"
A door creaked open nearby. A man poked his head out from a side shop, eyeing him with confusion. "You alright out there?" he called.
Nikolai's head snapped toward the sound, wild-eyed. The man's expression hardened, and he muttered something under his breath before retreating back inside, the door slamming shut. Nearby, a few factory laborers were all staring at him with wary expressions. One of them took a cautious step closer, but the other pulled him back.
"Drunk," the second muttered. "Or sick. Leave him be. Don't bother."
Nikolai's steps echoed softly against the cobblestones, each footfall a fragile anchor in the fog. He forced himself to focus on the mundane—the way the lamplight glinted off puddles, the distant caw of gulls, the faint smell of fish from the docks.
Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real.
He repeated it silently like a mantra, pressing it into his mind with every shallow breath. The chattering in his ear had dulled to a faint buzz, like distant static, and the vision of the waterlogged figure felt like a dream slipping at the edges of memory.
He pressed his fists into his coat pockets, hiding the rawness of his knuckles, and kept moving. Each step forward was a promise to himself.
Keep walking. Don't look back. Don't think about it.
By the time he reached the edge of the more populated streets, the fog had thinned slightly, and the air smelled less like the sea and more like smoke and coal. He paused at a lamp post, letting the light wash over him, and tried to straighten his shoulders.
Nikolai exhaled, the sound trembling, and started walking again. Each step was careful, suggesting an urge to suppress any memory of the figure, the whispers, the cold press of the docks on his skin. For now, he could convince himself that it was gone, that he was fine.
For now.
Let's go home.
The following hours were a blur. Tomas and Lukas were out – drinking, most likely. The last roommate had not budged since Nikolai had returned to collect the briefcase earlier. He remained still in his bedding, the occasional snore making his chest rise with each inhale.
Let's wash up.
Step. Step. Step.
Nikolai flicked on the dim gaslight in the bathroom. His eyes immediately fell on the painting once again. The brushstrokes clumsy, colors bleeding awkwardly into one another, petals that looked more like smudges than blooms. Some stems bent at impossible angles, leaves floating freely without connection to anything. It was objectively a bad painting.
Yet, he liked it. It didn't demand, it didn't judge, it just existed in its corner of the bathroom.
Nikolai splashed water onto his face, watching the streaks run down his cheeks and drip from his chin. The cold sting in his knuckles flared again when he rubbed them under the stream, the open cuts protesting the touch. He hissed between his teeth but forced himself to clean them, wincing as blood and grit swirled away into the basin. After washing up and bandaging his wounds, Nikolai returned to his room.
Nikolai finally collapsed onto his bed, the day's weight pressing him flat. His wet clothes were discarded onto the floor, forgotten. The cuts on his hands throbbed faintly, but exhaustion drowned out most of the pain.
He pulled the thin blanket over himself, tucking his arms close. The room was quiet, save for the soft hiss of the gaslight and the occasional creak of the building settling. His eyelids grew heavy, each blink longer than the last.
The chattering in his ear had dulled to a low, distant buzz, like a cursed lullaby wouldn't cease entirely. The fog in his mind softened, memories of the docks and the alley fading into gray shadows at the edges of consciousness.
Finally, Nikolai's breathing evened, chest rising and falling with a shallow rhythm. The tension in his muscles slackened, and his fists unclenched. Sleep came slowly at first, hesitant, then deeper, pulling him under like the tide he had barely escaped.
For a few hours, there was nothing but darkness and the soft, steady beat of rest. The world outside could wait. For now, he could simply be.
"Baihu. Wake."
No. No more. Not tonight... Please.
...
He shut his eyes tighter, turned his face into the pillow, and pressed himself into the mattress until the voice dissolved into the hum of his pulse. His breathing slowed again. The tremor in his hands eased.
The darkness swelled and softened around him, the edges of the room fading. The faint scent of salt and iron drifted away, replaced by the dry warmth of old wood and linen. And then he was gone too, carried into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind where even memories cannot follow.
...
"Good night, brother."