Chapter Text
Dying, he's discovered, is like being enveloped in a thick blanket.
It is all encompassing, swallowing him into nothingness as it dulls his senses beyond comprehension. The world has grown awfully dull, his line of sight flooded with grays and blues, as if a veil has been cast upon his very eyes.
It's only the puddle of his blood that lies in stark contrast with the rest, a deep red that's begun to mingle with the pavement.
He blinks, slowly, eyelids long since fallen to half mast as he lies uselessly on the ground. Harsh concrete digs into the skin of his cheek, the consequence of tipping over after he's lost his sense of equilibrium. Even that sensation has grown distant. Very few things register to him at this point, like the sound of his ragged breathing that just barely reaches his ears, or the deep lacerations in his lower abdomen, once excruciatingly painful now reduced to a minute throb.
Even his pulse has slowed, gone sluggish as it tries to persist. Deliriously, he wonders whether this is what drowning feels like.
He struggles to keep his head afloat as the current attempts to pull him under, that darkness that clouds his vision grabbing hold of him. His limbs remain unresponsive, ignoring his desire to reach forward— for what? He does not know. His fingers merely twitch under the effort, tips stained crimson, before going limp.
It's a losing battle, strength all but faded.
And yet there's a part of him that wishes to welcome it, that seeks comfort in the warmth death's embrace may provide. A part that no longer seeks for resistance, but rather, a guidance, or a savior.
There's a motion before him, his vision sharpening just enough to recognize a figure crouched over him before it shifts out of focus once more. He thinks there's a touch to his shoulder, or a brush against his forehead— he's unsure.
No, not his savior.
A gloved hand retrieves something that previously lay beside him, before that figure rises to full height, his retreating back the last thing he sees before his eyes finally slip shut, and time fades into nothing.
…Until he awakes again, with his breath caught in his throat.
Everything hurts, from his burning lungs that struggle to drag in breath after breath, to his aching chest where his heart beats erratically inside its ribcage. He can't help but dig his fingernails deep within the skin of his neck as he folds in on himself, eyesight fogging up as he struggles to make sense of where he is.
It takes him a while to bring himself back to the present, and even longer for him to understand that he's within the walls of his own bedroom and not that lonely alleyway that's haunted him for nearly two years.
He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to calm himself, and it's only when his breathing shifts from harsh pants to a somewhat steady measure that is broken by the occasional shudder that he forces them open again. When he does, the room still tilts, as do the sporadic body tremors, but at least he's able to prevent himself from free falling further.
He swallows the bile and saliva that rises to his throat, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hands. He's not looking forward to the migraine that'll kick in soon, and neither is he fond of the sharp pain that pierces through his neck as he attempts to straighten himself, or how his belly throbs angrily. Even as he rolls his head from side to side to loosen the kinks and assuage his aches the feeling persists. And to tie it all together in a neat little bow, he can sense bone deep exhaustion creep in.
All in all, he feels like shit.
He squints as a harsh light assaults his senses, and groans once he realizes he's allowed himself to pass out in front of his monitor again. A quick glance behind him confirms that his sheets are still as neat and pristine as he'd left them the night before, and the night before that one.
He's certain it's collecting dust by now.
Slowly, his eyes readjust to his monitor, the screen still set on the article he was reading right before he'd presumably crashed from exhaustion. A glance at the clock confirms it close to six, and while he doesn't exactly recall how late he'd been up for, it doesn't bode well for his already awful sleep schedule. At this point, he's close to becoming nocturnal.
He does a quick sweep over his inbox— nothing besides the handful of interview requests and a few unread messages from his two remaining friends— before he shuts the screen off. It's still early, but going back to bed at this hour with his current frazzled mind would be pointless. He'd be better off getting ready for the day, and hopefully, take something for his head.
He waits until he, at the very least, doesn't feel sick before he pushes himself away from his desk and all but stumbles his way to his wardrobe. Perhaps, a warm shower would be enough to rouse him.
It's a day much like any other at the shop.
Not many know about Astral Express Books, tucked away in a hidden corner of Aurum Alley's many streets. Busy days are few and far in between, the shop’s patrons mostly consisting of a handful of regulars who like to come by and read in the store’s reading area, and the occasional newcomer who happens to stumble upon the shop in passing.
Most of Dan Heng’s work hours are spent keeping the shop in order and sorting through their catalog, the simple act of stacking books having become routine over the months.
It's a job that would likely bore the average person to death, repetitive with little room for change. Yet it's exactly what he needed, the dull yet quiet nature of the job providing a sense of security and stability he's desperately needed in recent times. No longer did he need to look over his shoulder or have to fear drawing too much attention to himself. It allows him a reprieve from the world, unlike his previous work environment.
It helps that he is the shop's only employee, and that his boss never seeks to pry into his life. Something which unfortunately could not be said of his ex-colleagues. The older man usually allows him to man the shop by himself, a responsibility he is more than happy to take on.
It's rather unfortunate, though, that his performance has been slipping as of late.
He’d long since finished restocking the shelves and tidying up the store, leaving him with nothing to do besides sitting by the counter until closing time. Usually, under such circumstances, he would pull up a book to pass the time, as reading is one of the few things that keeps his mind clear nowadays. Today, that's proving to be far more difficult than usual.
He keeps nodding off, the countless nights without proper sleep finally catching up to him. Falling asleep on the job is hardly ever exemplary. His attempts to shake himself awake every so often futile, as his eyes can't stay peeled open for longer than a few seconds at a time.
The words on the page blur, and suddenly he's drifting…
…Until a heavy weight hits the counter.
He lurches forward, heart caught in his throat, and it takes a beat too long for him to recognize the one who stands before him.
Golden eyes stare back at him, somewhat apologetic. "'Sup," she greets once he's finally settled down. It's a good enough distraction from the humiliation he feels.
"Stelle," he answers, more like a deadpan. If she's put off by his sour expression she doesn't show it, instead beaming broadly at his acknowledgment. He peers at the cookbook that rests on the counter, frowning slightly yet makes no comment as he moves to scan the item.
"Aren't you supposed to be at the office?" He asks as she hands him her card. He hasn't exactly been able to keep track of time recently, but surely it can't be that late. He's pretty sure there's still some time left before she's supposed to be let off work.
She hums, all nonchalant. "Got fired."
Right, that explains it.
He rolls his eyes not too subtly. Stelle, who is far from a model employee, hasn't been able to hold a job down for longer than six months. He believes her time as a babysitter was the longest she was employed for, and even that ended in less than ideal circumstances.
"You wouldn't think the old man would have a job available for me, would you?" He falters as he puts the cookbook away in a shopping bag. The error doesn't go unnoticed by Stelle, who stares at him wide eyed.
"…I'm not sure," he mutters, handing her her purchase.
"Eh, not to worry. I'll dedicate my time to becoming Firefly's personal chef this time around," she jests, brandishing the shopping bag before him. "That reminds me."
Her smile drops, features shifting into a serious expression that is unusual for her. "You didn't swing by Himeko's today."
A gust of air unleashes from his nose, and his gaze averts due to building tension. He pulls his opened book closer to him, no longer interested in talking.
Of course, Stelle is not one to be ignored for long. "March misses you terribly," she teases, awfully persistent. She leans forward, far too close for comfort, and Dan Heng can't help but shy away at the disturbance. "How long do you plan to keep her waiting?"
He shakes his head minutely, brows creasing slightly at her prodding. He should've known her visit wasn't without reason. Their conversations have turned to borderline interrogations as of late, and he hates being at the receiving end of it.
"I saw her yesterday," he answers, the words clipped. He's aware he's growing far too agitated, but it's hard to put a lid on his emotions. Stelle stares at him, unimpressed at the attitude.
"You saw her last Thursday," she fires back, dropping her charade entirely. There's an underlying element of accusation beneath her tone, and to his ears it sounds far too close to judgment. He can already feel himself locking up.
"You haven't answered any of her texts either," she continues, seemingly unaware of his darkening mood, "or mine! Which is fine, don't get me wrong. But I shouldn't have to hunt you down just to get an update from you."
Any protest or scathing reply he had thought up dies on his tongue. He hates how she isn't wrong; he knows he's been slipping, his recollection muddled enough to where he can't tell the difference between yesterday and a week ago. He could've sworn he spoke to March recently yet now he's unsure.
"…Sorry," he mutters, stubbornly staring at the counter as shame consumes him. He feels more exhausted than he did before.
Stelle uncrosses her arms, her expression melting into one of compassion. "No need to apologize. I know you haven't been yourself lately.
That would be an understatement. He hasn't 'been himself' for a while. Far too long to be justifiable.
Perhaps he had been able to keep up a pretense of normalcy at first, but those days have long since waned. And even if he could do that now, it doesn't matter, for Stelle was a difficult person to fool. She's always been awfully observant, her studious eyes able to pick apart any minute detail.
For as long as he's known her she's had this uncanny ability to read him, looking past his flimsy facade to witness the broken person underneath. Even now, her gaze weighs heavy, and Dan Heng can't bring himself to meet those eyes. He's certain that if he does, the only thing that will reflect within the gold is pity.
"You look tired," she says eventually, addressing the state she'd found him in for the first time.
He knows he looks a mess, appearance far too incriminating. He'd seen the evidence himself when he'd spotted himself in the mirror earlier this morning, the dark blotches beneath his eyes hard to miss. And neither are his gaunt cheeks, more visible due to his poor health.
He brushes his unruly fringe out of his face, too long due to the fact that he hasn't had a haircut in ages. "I haven't been sleeping lately."
"Nightmares keeping you up again?" She pauses, pursing her lips slightly before shaking her head. "Nevermind, I'm probably overstepping."
She slings her shopping bag over her shoulder and pushes away from the counter. "I should probably stop holding you up." She makes a move to leave yet halts just as quick, turning back once more. "Nearly forgot, but I'm hosting a dinner party Friday evening with March and Firefly. If you're feeling up for it, you can come over— don't make that face."
He schools his features into something neutral, even if the reminder of Stelle's cooking is somewhat unpleasant. "Can't. I'm busy,"
Stelle's smile dims a little, before her eyes brighten slightly. "Right, you have an appointment that day," she recalls, though her voice still sounds a little sombre.
He's forced to swallow the nausea her words evoke, and prays the guilt doesn't work its way into his demeanor. It's only because Stelle has turned away that he finally unleashes a breath of relief.
"I'll be out of your hair for now. Text me later?"
It's a useless request to make of him, he's certain she knows, yet it's one she makes anyway. His subsequent nod is merely absent minded, though he stalls halfway through the action.
"Stelle," he calls out a final time, impulsively. He can't prevent the words from spilling from his lips, "I promise to visit Himeko's for lunch tomorrow."
When he lifts his gaze he's met with Stelle's surprise, mouth slackened before it lifts into a broad beam. "Awesome! I'll be sure to pass on the message to March," she says, her enthusiasm barely contained.
She all but skids to the door. "See you tomorrow! Oh, and greet Welt for me," she adds at the end, more of an afterthought. She makes a mock salute gesture before pushing her way out of the store, the bell that rings above her head signaling her departure.
Dan Heng sighs, all the tension within releasing all at once. He won't allow regret to take hold of him, even if he'd rather remain shut in for the rest of the week. He returns to his book, continuing where he'd left off before.
The rest of the day remains mostly uneventful, and just as dull as it was before the disturbance. The clock ticks slow as the hours pass by, and though he tries to finish his book before closing time, his focus is far too scattered to make it through a chapter.
Only a handful of customers come and go during the final hour. Most don't bother speaking to him outside of the necessary short form exchange. He feels something close to relief when there's only 10 minutes left on the clock.
"Do you need something else, ma'am?" he asks, trying not to make a face as he scans yet another book featuring a raunchy cover, though it's a very near thing.
The elderly woman before him smiles, a bit too friendly for his liking. "No need, young lad." She scurries through her purse before handing the credits in cash to him with an unsteady yet slender hand.
"You got through the last batch rather quickly," he mumbles absentmindedly, eyeing the stack on the counter.
There's a tinny chuckle, followed by a hand-wave motion. "When you're retired and by your lonesome like me you get more than enough time to self indulge."
Dan Heng cringes inwardly. He's more than aware of her preferred reading. She comes in every two weeks or so, though part of him feels like the interval between her visits has been shortening as of late. Honestly, a part of him regrets bringing the subject up.
"Have a nice evening, ma'am," he says as soon as check out is over and done with, the farewell routine at this point. He's just about ready to start counting the register when he realizes the elderly woman has not moved from her place. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Ah, it's nothing but," she pauses, her face a bit wistful and a little bit forlorn, "these books are rather heavy and my car is parked so far from here. You wouldn't mind helping this elderly woman out, would you?"
He blinks, maybe once or twice before averting his gaze. "I suppose it wouldn't be a problem," he answers, helpless to deny the request.
It's why he eventually finds himself standing beside her dingy car moments after closing time, loading up the trunk without complaint. "All done, ma'am."
"You have my deepest gratitude. The youth of today is far more promising than they were during my time."
He huffs a laugh, a bit confused. "I guess so."
If she's put off by his flippant attitude she doesn't make a show of it. In fact, he's not even sure if she's noticed. "If only the men my age were half as gentlemanly as you," she sighs, before fixing him with a gaze that spelled nothing but trouble. "I need to find myself a young man like you to sweep me off my feet."
Her voice is sugar sweet, and his face burns a bright red. It's not the first instance where she's come onto him, and each time is more excruciatingly uncomfortable than the last. "There's no need for flattery, ma'am. I'm merely helping out where I can," he says none too gently, making a wide berth as she attempts to make a reach for him. In fact, he thinks he's done with this entire conversation.
"I have to catch my train soon. I hope you enjoy your latest read." He pretends not to see her disappointment, scurrying out of the parking lot. "I hope you make it home safely," he throws behind him one last time.
Despite the direction the conversation turned, she still grants him a wave and a smile. "Same to you, dear."
This time, he's unable to prevent the full body shudder, his feet moving faster than before. He tells himself it's not the embarrassment that causes him to quicken his pace, but the train he has to catch. He'd hate to wait another hour.
In the end, he doesn't miss the train, but it's a very near thing. By the time he makes it home from the commute the sun has already set, its golden rays close to fading. He only switches his lights on once he's ensured the door's locks are in place, and shrugs off his coat despite the chill that permeates the room.
The kitchen is dimly lit as he makes his way through it, a distant stab of hunger resonating within his stomach. It's an inconvenience more than anything, as he doesn't think he can muster up the energy to make himself dinner. Opening the fridge provides him with little results; empty save for the leftovers from who knows how many days ago and food containers that have long since past their expiry date.
He dumps them in the trash, glad to have that chore over and done with. A run to his local grocery store would be in order soon, something he isn't exactly looking forward to yet is a must if it means restocking his food supplies. He'll just have to order something for now.
He merely goes through the motions for the rest of the evening, uneventful as any Wednesday night could be. At some point while he's tidying up the kitchen his phone chimes, leading him to sigh as he dries off the dishes. A glance at the display confirms his suspicion.
19:48 > don’t show up late tomorrow. we have lots to catch up on ^-^
March is persistent as ever. Despite his earlier promise to Stelle he resorts to ignoring the message, at least for now. He'll worry about it in the morning when he's not dead on his feet.
It's only after his order has arrived and he's decently fed that he retreats to his bedroom. He spares a few minutes to ensure every lock is bolted in place, and that every curtain is drawn to a close, and assures himself that a third inspection isn't necessary.
As soon as his head hits the pillow he's out like a light, fatigue claiming him in an instant. The comfort of his soft sheets is far too welcoming after denying himself the privilege for days. It's a moment of peace he doesn't otherwise experience.
It doesn't last.
He wakes with a start a mere two hours later, with an ache in his lung and blood on his tongue. Heart in his throat, he remembers once more that normalcy will always remain out of reach for him.
Before he knows it he's dragging himself out of bed again, the notion of getting more sleep a useless one. At least by looking at the latest news cycle he'll be able to calm his mind.
His skin crawls as he walks through the busy crowd.
The morning at the shop was dull, similar to any other morning before. It only happens that this time, he was also plagued with dread, not exactly eager for what the day would have in store.
That dread has only increased tenfold since then, worsening the further he walks along the street. Rush hour doesn't spare him; the sensation of eyes raking over him doesn't leave him as he feels each pair scrutinize him. They pick him apart as if he were a mere slab of meat, or meager prey waiting to be swallowed whole.
Maybe it's all in his head.
His eyes strain as they remain fixated on his feet, hoping his skittish behavior won't make him stand out. An insidious voice in his mind reminds him that it won't matter, that they'll all recognize him anyway.
Entering the cafe hardly provides any relief.
He tugs at the collar of his turtleneck, the surface of his neck damp despite the breeze, feeling as though he's suffocating. He unconsciously finds himself tugging his coat closer regardless.
"Dan Heng!"
He starts, and all the heads that turn toward him fuel his nausea. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to recognize the voice as March's, and even longer to to distinguish her figure seated in the far end of the cafe.
It didn't appear like she had noticed his hiccup, too busy enthusiastically waving him over. It's a small miracle.
He makes himself small as he rushes over to her, hyper-aware of the eyes that linger. When he's finally stood by the table — their usual, per his request — he realizes Stelle is already present, furiously typing away at her phone. There's a slight crease between her eyebrows.
"'Sup," she greets absentmindedly, more of a mutter if anything. She doesn't witness the scathing glare March gives her. The well angled elbow jab does not come as a surprise to Dan Heng, who witnesses the act go down. The same could not be said for Stelle.
There's a yelp. "What?" she asks, rubbing her arm slightly, "I saw him yesterday."
Dan Heng huffs at the display, far too familiar with the girls' antics. It seems March isn't all too pleased either, expression still sullen as scowls at Stelle. It's quickly dismissed as her gaze lands on Dan Heng again, eyes brightening.
And then before he knows it she's on him, locking him in what could only be described as a bear hug.
"I've missed you," she exclaims, or attempts to, as her voice is muffled due to it being buried in the crook of his neck. He freezes, body caught in a fight or flight response before his brain reboots itself, and then he's awkwardly patting her on the shoulder.
"I hadn't meant to skip out on so many days again." I'm sorry, is what he means to say, though he can't bring himself to speak the words. For now, this is all he can admit.
March pushes herself away just as quickly as she’d latched onto him, eyes wide with disbelief. "Don't feel bad!" She says, a bit louder than necessary, "it's just— you know how it is when you go radio silent. It's a bit worrying." He winces slightly, which doesn't escape Stelle's notice. March remains oblivious, though, unaware that she'd started rambling. "Not that I mean to overstep or be overbearing or anything! It's just good to see you again."
He blinks slightly before lowering his gaze, grip latching onto his messenger bag. "Likewise."
Stelle, of course, is hardly one to be ignored for long. "You know how March is. That poor girl would die without you."
The bait lands all too easily, and March is quick to turn her back to him as she turns to Stelle once more. "That's not true!"
"Oh?" Stelle's grin widens, like a cat with its latest catch. "But it is, though? You're attached to the poor guy, like a little duckling."
"Yeah, cause he's our friend," March says as a rebuttal, crossing her arms as a petulant pout graces her lips. "At least I know how to greet someone."
Dan Heng takes the moment of distraction as an opportunity to slide into the seat opposite to the girls, who seem to be far too preoccupied with bickering with one another. He rights himself just in time to witness Stelle react with mock offense.
"Excuse you! I'll have you know I'm ignoring our dear buddy for a noble cause. My unemployment problem isn't going to solve itself, y'know, and the job market is shit."
He shakes his head in disapproval before getting lost in thought, gazing out the window and observing people as they pass by on busy streets.
"No one told you to get yourself fired again," there's a pause, before March speaks again, "what did you even do this time?"
"Told head of HR to eat shit."
Faces pass and blur together, colors turn to a flurry, and everything becomes muddled. Very little stands out to him, yet he's still seeking.
"Whatever. You're just jealous because you can't tell that old fart to eat shit the same way I would."
His gaze is drawn to Stelle once more, startled in a way. Her arms are folded over the table, and she sports a grin that's far too smug to be tolerable, a stark contrast to March's sour expression.
"Aeons, please don't remind me. I've had enough of that guy," she unleashes a weary sigh, fully leaning against the table. She sports the expression of a soggy kitten. "He's been driving me nuts. Keeps asking for one unreasonable request after the other. I don't understand how you used to tolerate him."
There's a lump that forms in his throat, one that prevents him from being able to answer. March remains ever oblivious to his change in mood, though, glaring at the menu before her.
"Unreasonable requests? Hasn't he been swamping you with work? What more could he possibly want from you." Stelle innocently asks.
For the first time in a while, March's eyes shift towards him. Her expression grows sheepish, and it's hard to miss the regret that flickers in her eyes. "Ah… I'd rather not say."
An acidic smile tugs on his lips, a bitter emotion swelling inside him. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with me," he mutters darkly, words spoken through gritted teeth.
He only allows himself to feel regret when March flinches ever so slightly, the action only caught because he's hyper aware of any sudden movement. "I would never allow him to leverage our friendship against me like that," she clarifies, not for the first time. Her gaze is far too apologetic, and part of it makes him want to crumble. "Taoran just doesn't know how to take no for an answer—" there's a slight shake to her head, and then a frown, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."
"It's not your fault," he assures her, before looking away.
"Don't tell me that guy is still trying to get a story out of you," Stelle says suddenly. As always, she's able to connect the dots too quickly, and much to his detriment, she's far too willing to voice her thoughts aloud.
Dan Heng falls silent, no longer willing to participate in the conversation. Taoran was always an unpleasant person to be around, and he persists despite his efforts to distance himself from the man and the firm. In the short time he'd returned since the incident, merely being in his presence was suffocating to him. That sentiment has not changed since then, the knowledge of his pursuit enough to make Dan Heng's skin crawl.
March has made an effort not to bring the man up in his presence. Though he'd never admitted to his grievances, she'd understood that he made Dan Heng feel trapped. Even now she picks up the slack where he's unable to, voicing thoughts he holds himself. "The guy's a massive dick," she says, her own frustration bleeding through her tone, "if only he understood he was the one who pushed you away."
She hums, something in her gaze shifting into something more somber, and he is quick to avoid it. "I do miss you at the firm, though. It's not the same."
He tries not to dwell in the guilt her confession evokes, tries not to remember how she'd followed him to the publishing firm just to be with him, or how she's now facing the brunt of Taoran's unpleasant character all because he's no longer there to act as a buffer, yet even he knows there's nothing to be done.
His days of journalism are over, his passion long since died. There's nothing to return to.
"Why don't you request to switch departments?" Stelle asks, half occupied as she scours through the menu in search for something new. "I'm sure someone would be able to understand." It's a question he thinks she's asked before, though he's uncertain, his memory spotty.
"That's exactly the problem," March moans, propping her cheek upon her fist, "no one wants to work with the guy. I'm pretty much stuck." She sighs, straightening herself once more, "maybe I should have taken up that job offer at that fashion magazine. Or maybe I really should be like you and tell that guy to eat shit."
Stelle grins, entirely too proud of herself. Though, her eyes seem to slide over Dan Heng's form for a second, and he already knows she's going to say something he'll regret. Her mouth is halfway open when someone approaches them.
"Ready to order?" Silver Wolf asks, and Dan Heng silently thanks her for preventing yet another headache.
Mouth still agape, Stelle blinks wildly at their server. "Silver Wolf," she grins at her, and Silver Wolf rolls her eyes, "I haven't seen you in ages— Did you miss me?"
She wiggles her eyebrows, then gasps when Silver Wolf rewards her by flipping her off. Beside her, March snorts, and Dan Heng can't help but shake his head again. It's probably for the third time by now.
"Your order?" Silver Wolf asks again, less bored and more impatient now.
"Just a tea is fine," he says, taking pity on the girl. He hands her the menu— which he admittedly hasn't looked at once. March throws him a glance yet makes no comment.
Silver Wolf arches a brow. "The usual?" She doesn't wait for an answer before she's scribbling in her notepad, though he finds himself humming regardless.
Not eager to waste anymore time, March rushes out an order of her own. A milk tea, as always, and a strawberry flavored cake he believes is this month's special, the name vaguely familiar. As for Stelle, the list of things she asks for is far too long, and he starts zoning out halfway through.
"Remember to tell the kitchen to prepare mine with a dash of love," she says, shit eating grin back in place. Her face falls slightly right as Silver Wolf turns to leave, and she calls out after her, "and stop denying my friend request on Crash Rail!"
Once Silver wolf is out of earshot, Stelle turns back to them with a pout. "She's so mean to me."
"She's mean to you because you deserve it," March says, attempting to stifle a giggle behind her hand. Her effort to put on a stony expression fails pretty spectacularly, thrown into a fit once Stelle sticks her tongue out at her.
He looks between the girls fondly as they bicker, the corners of his mouth unconsciously lifting into a half smile. In all the time he spends in self isolation, he often does forget how much he adores being with the two.
Or at least, how much he used to. They used to be inseparable once, yet so much has changed in these past two years.
"Did you hear? About what happened earlier?"
"You mean what happened to that old lady."
He blinks suddenly, pulled out of his thoughts. He shifts slightly in his seat, forcing himself not to turn back to the people seated behind him out of curiosity.
It's just that their whispering is a tad bit too loud, and he ends up honing into them all too fast.
"It's disgusting," a man's voice spits, "they found her cut to ribbons. A bloody carnage." Dan Heng feels his ears warm, stuck measuring his breathing. "Those incompetent fools still haven't caught the killer even after all these years have passed."
The table rattles slightly, and it takes him a while to realize it's him who has grown too jittery, leg bouncing up and down anxiously. His focus is slipping more and more, and butterflies begin to flurry more and more in his gut.
It feels too close to dread.
Someone clears their throat, and he's broken out of his trance all too swiftly. His head shoots up as if he was caught by a live-wire, and he's a step too late to dampen the response. Stelle regards him with mild concern, head tilting as she studies every inch of his face. It makes him want to hide away in shame, his only reason for not doing so being that it would only make him come across as more incriminating.
March, on the other hand, seems far more occupied with glaring at the couple behind him. He dares to take a peak himself, swallowing the lump in his throat as he does. The man who spoke earlier at least has the sense to clammer his mouth shut.
Though the same could not be said for the young woman who accompanies him, who stares wide eyed at him in what could only be described as recognition.
He averts his gaze just as quickly, and tries to pretend he doesn't feel claustrophobic.
Instead of allowing himself to admit discomfort, he attempts to deflect. "I'm not made of glass, you know."
March's features soften, and it makes him feel worse. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel that way."
I know, he thinks. It goes unspoken.
They both mean well. He knows they do. They try their best to provide a sense of balance, patient in their attempt to ground him despite how far he's detached himself from them.
He wonders how much longer it'll take for either to realize that he's a lost cause, and that nothing they do could save him, or bring back the person they once knew.
Surviving a murder attempt was bound to leave him screwed up, the only person lucky enough to live after brushing up against the blood hungry killer who haunts the streets.
He'd lost his sense of balance a long while ago, left to drift further from solid ground.
His restlessness doesn't lessen.
It increases bit by bit, worsening as he climbs the stairwell. It doesn't help that the steps creak as he passes along, wooden floorboards aged and worn down, giving the impression that it may collapse due to pressure.
He's picked up a habit of being light on his feet, yet not even that could dampen the noise. He inwardly curses his landlord for being incompetent like usual— the elevator out of service again, for a third time this month. It's forced him to climb ten flights of stairs he otherwise wouldn't. Especially not when he's already tugging grocery bags along.
It's a relief when he finally reaches his floor, and a bigger one once his front door comes into view. He moves as swiftly as he can, ignoring the burn in his lungs as he fumbles with his keys.
They clatter to the floor.
He stares at his set of keys in silence, before releasing a huff in anger, leaning against the wall of the corridor. His eyes pinch shut as he seeks to collect himself. It takes a beat for him to get his emotions in order, far longer than usual. He's so tired.
It's the promise of the bed that awaits him on the other side of the door that finally convinces him to lower himself to his knees, sweeping his keys off the floor. As he rises to full height he nearly jumps out of his skin.
There's a sudden movement just within his periphery, causing him to twist around in alarm. The panic dissipates just as quickly once he recognizes his neighbor standing opposite to him.
"Long time no see," a deceptively warm voice greets. A pair of eyes that seem like they know too much peer back at him, leaving him to feel unsettled and cornered.
He's unable to still the tension in his shoulders, something she is far too eager to take notice of. "Kafka," speaks in a low tone. She responds with a grin that is both kind and not.
It had been a while since they'd last seen each other, and it's all thanks to his own effort to avoid her at all cost. From the moment he'd moved into the apartment across from her a little over a year ago, she'd been nothing but inviting. Or at least, that's what she outwardly presents herself as.
Prim and proper with an element of elegance that complements her appearance. She is still dressed in office attire, pressed shirt tucked neatly into her pencil skirt, while her plum colored locks are carefully swept into an updo. Yet to Dan Heng, she's nothing more than a wolf draped in sheep's clothing.
Her gaze is far too sharp and calculating, and often times it feels like she knows more than she lets on. Other times, he feels as though she's gotten him all figured out, like she's managed to pry his deepest secrets out of the depths of his mind, and seen him for what he truly is.
To her, he is nothing more than a mouse to be toyed with for her amusement's sake. Though, he isn't sure whether it's his paranoia that influences him to think that way. He argues it's the reason that tells him to keep their interactions to a minimum, their conversations never lasting more than ten minutes if he can help it. He's kept that system up from the moment they'd first met.
It isn't foolproof, though, as is the case now. Her smile broadens, her gaze hungry as she picks him apart yet again. "You look pent up. Is it work not treating you kindly."
There's a beat of silence, followed by a huff of breath that releases involuntarily from his nose, his lung capacity only extending so far. It's not the first time she's commented on his appearance. She, like many, has taken note of how unsightly he'd allowed himself to become. He is hard pressed to believe it comes from a place of concern, however, that little voice in his head encouraging foul thoughts to fester.
The glare he directs her way is far from pretty. "What do you want?"
She cocks her head slightly, and if she has taken note of his growing hostility she pretends to be none the wiser. "Is it so wrong of me to catch up with my long-time neighbor?"
No, it's more like she revels in it.
"I merely intend to extend goodwill. I hardly see you bring anyone over, cooped up as you are," she pauses, eyes watching him like a hawk, "would it be so wrong of me to check up on you from time to time."
"That's hardly your concern," he mutters darkly. He's back to flipping through his keys, the chain rattling with the motion.
Her chuckle only serves to fan the flames, and encourages him to get his door open faster before he loses the handle on his self restraint.
"So quick to leave? I have something that might interest you?"
The door swings open with force, the safety of his home on the other side of the threshold. Yet he's unable to resist the bait, looking back with disdain. "What?"
There's a slight hum, deep and melodic. She digs through the pocket of her coat still slung over her shoulder with leisure. As soon as the object enters his field of vision his thoughts flat-line, his anger drowned out by dread.
"This made its way to my doorstep by mistake," she drawls, an envelope held loosely between her slender pointer and middle-finger. The envelope is stark white and pristine, absent of name or address on its back.
They both know it's addressed to him.
It's like she expects his lack of a response, leaving the door frame she was perched against to cross the hall. She levels him with a meaningful stare, teasing in a way it hadn't been before. "It would be a shame if this letter never made it to its intended recipient.
His hand feels clammy as he clutches onto the envelope, yet he can't tear his eyes off it.
It made its way to Kafka's doorstep by mistake? It feels oddly deceptive. He hates how he can't get a read on her.
"I'll see you around," she says in lieu of a goodbye. He doesn't answer, not because he doesn't want to but because he can't, voice momentarily stolen. He watches as retreats to her door, looking over her shoulder one final time, "you might want to lock up early tonight."
And then he's alone again. Left to his thoughts, the envelope, and his heart that pumps wildly in his chest.
A shiver passes through him.
The next few minutes pass in a blur, where he goes through the motions. He spares little thought for the groceries he stores away, only done so out of necessity as he wouldn't want refrigerated items to go bad. Yet his mind is elsewhere, locked in on the envelope that rests on the counter.
Once the last of his recently bought goods is stored away, he's rushing for the letter, tearing into it with little grace. There's a flash of red, and a crumpled flower falls to his feet.
A pressed spider lily, preserved for this very moment.
He stares at the flower in silence. He's received many of these in the passing months, enough that he can create a collection. There's a lump that forms in his throat at the sight, yet he can't bring himself to pick it up just yet.
Instead, he takes great care not to step on it even as his stomach churns. He's far more occupied with the letter and its contents, and folding it open grants him to just that.
The writing inside is a neat scrawl, dark ink imprinted into the paper like its author possessed a heavy hand. It's familiar, and Dan Heng is certain he could recognize it in a heartbeat by now. It has tormented him for months by now, words calling for his attention like a distant lover.
With bated breath, he reads the words over and over, eyes dancing across the letter.
'You neglect the callings of your heart, yet it's no matter. I've rid you of your ailment.'
'I will come for you when the time is right.'
His breath stutters in his ribcage, and for a moment in time he remains frozen. The cold has extended to his limbs, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and it has seeped deep into his bones. He can feel himself trembling as he remains fixed in place, reading the same words over and over again.
'I will come for you when the time is right.'
And then suddenly he's moving, pacing his living room floor with a manic energy he didn't possess before. Pacing until he's certain he's worn a hole into his carpet. Paces until his feet grow tired, and he can barely keep himself up anymore.
His knees buckle, and he collapses to the floor in a heap. The letter has gone creased by now, no longer in its pristine state from before. He barely takes notice as it falls beside him, as his hands have now buried themselves in roots of his hair, tugging as if the sting could soothe his warring emotions.
It repeats in his head, like a mantra, until there's no such thing as escape. Until he's consumed by it, and he can experience little thought or reason.
'I will come for you when the time is right.'
It's a promise, that much he knows. How long until it's fulfilled, he does not.
This night, like many before, is one where he has returned to that alleyway.
There's a pit deep within the confines of his stomach, multiplying, hollowing him out until little strength remains. His fingers dig into flesh, a useless attempt to apply pressure as his strength wanes. He knows it's futile, his fate spelled out for him from the moment that knife dug deep and made itself at home, tearing fat and tissue, and shredding any organ caught in its path.
Yet even as the blood spills from his guts and soils the tips of his fingers, he can't help but cling on— for life or for bearing? A question to which he doesn't know the answer of.
He feels himself slipping further and further.
Another wave of pain crashes through him, and he sways where he sits. He knows he can only hold himself up for so long, mere moments from tipping over. His free hand lies mere inches from his now discarded switchblade, as soaked as he is. Soaked in blood that does not belong to him.
That too, had been a foolish attempt to fend for himself. He'd gotten too fervid, his emotions too big for him to grab hold of. It had made him stupid and impulsive, and had cost him everything in the end. It is only natural that he pays for it with his life now.
Or at least, that's how he remembers it after. His attacker had gotten the better of him. He thinks so, at least. His head's been a mess.
He dares to face him once more, forcing his eyes to lift from where they previously rested on his bloodied fingers. It's another mistake, one of many he's made so far, as it sends him reeling. Next thing he knows he is crashing onto the ground, the sight of that tall mass before him shifting sideways.
He doesn't occupy his sight for long, already moving out of field while he struggles to keep himself afloat. A pair of eyes stare back at him in his stead, wide and unblinking.
If he were any more lucid, he would've felt some form of sickness, perhaps, even a shred of fear. Yet as he careens further and further from the realm of living, he feels eerily serene.
That figure from before moves in and out of his vision, speaks to him in words that are as indistinguishable as his features, merely a blur tonight. He thinks he touches his still form, though he's unsure.
A hand bound in leather retrieves the switchblade right as darkness claims him. And then he startles awake again in an instant, sprawled across his living room floor.
He's so out of it when he wakes that he can make little sense of why he's propped against the couch, slumped into a half seated position. He blinks once or twice, rather owlishly, before his eyes trail around his surroundings with difficulty.
It's probably a mild concern when the letter from before doesn't jog his memory immediately, his recollection of the evening coming in waves. His head feels like it's filled with cotton.
Stupidly, he thinks this is at least an improvement over waking up on his desk chair.
He sluggishly tugs himself to his feet, collecting the letter on his way up. He moves about his apartment listlessly, his body a wreck. He doesn't know whether it's the kinks in his back or the dull ache in his lower abdomen that's causing him more grief at the moment.
It'll be something he'll have to ignore for now, shuffling across the floor in silence. He only pauses briefly as he passes by the kitchen, eyes lingering on the flower left from before. He'll have to collect it and store it with the others.
It's a foolish habit he's created. He doesn't understand why he's held onto them for as long as he has, as they only cause him further torment. He tells himself he keeps it as evidence, as proof that what's happening is real, and not something his mind has conjured up to torment him.
He unleashes a sigh as he discards the letter and the flower on his nightstand, before collapsing in bed. The night is still young, and all these worries will be dealt with in the morning.
Yet sleep doesn't come to him.
It never does when he gets like this. He lies wide awake as he opens his browser app, scrolling through news article after news article. It's no different than when he's up behind his monitor all night; he's traded one vice for another.
"Xianzhou's Lotus Killer strikes again — Elderly woman found dead inside car at noon."
He breathes in steadily, in search of some form of emotion yet finds nothing. He believes he's lost the capacity to feel remorse somewhere along the way. Not even the more gruesome images, the ones he finds through scrubbing the deepest corners of the internet, are enough to spark grief.
She's only one of many that came before her, and there will be many more that'll come after, so long as his time is not due yet. This is a truth he's reconciled with a long time ago.
Perhaps, he should feel shame, or at the very least a modicum of disgust. He knows better than anyone what it's like to have a knife embedded into his flesh, and be torn apart from inside. He knows that if his friends — who have put in so much effort to cling onto him over the years — knew of his innermost thoughts, they wouldn't be able to recognize him for who he's become.
He doesn't even believe he'd be able to recognize himself. He's fallen so far, broken beyond repair.
Hues of red and orange begin to paint the sky, and some of its light spills through the gaps of his curtains. He blinks maybe once or twice, stares at the printed news article held between his finger tips, then lifts his gaze toward the bulletin board he's got hung up on the wall of his bedroom, decorated with news article after news article and handwritten notes created in bouts of madness.
…Oh. It seems he's lost track of time again.
The article has already been neatly trimmed, made to include the most important information. He pins it with the rest, before backing away. He needs to get ready for the day.