Waking up felt like getting hit by a freight train full of static. My skull throbbed, my throat burned, and the air smelled too clean to be anywhere near real life. When my vision finally stopped flickering, I realized I was staring at a ceiling that hummed. Not metaphorically. The damn thing hummed.
I turned my head and saw three men in matte-black tactical gear standing near the door. Helmets. Rifles. The whole "don't-even-breathe-wrong" package. Their faces were covered, but you didn't need facial expressions to recognize hostility. They were the kind of people who looked at you like a broken toaster — something dangerous and disposable.
Then the door slid open with a hiss, and in walked a guy who clearly didn't belong in the same movie. White coat, soft voice, messy hair that looked like it lost a fight with a fan. He smiled like he hadn't spent the morning autopsying corpses.
"Good to see you awake," he said, checking a tablet. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I lost a drinking contest with God," I muttered, pushing myself up.
He chuckled. "That's normal. I'm Doctor Mikel Riviero, but you can call me Mike. Or Doc. Whichever keeps you from biting my head off."
"Cute," I said.
He started poking at machines beside my bed. Everything beeped like it was confirming my misery. "Vitals are… stable," he said. "Which is impressive, considering what happened."
"Yeah," I said. "About that. Where the hell am I?"
"The Center for Post-Eidolon Rehabilitation," he replied, too casually. "CPER, for short. We handle survivors of Eidolon encounters. Well, 'survivors' is a generous term."
It's always reassuring to hear from your doctor that most people in your condition don't make it to breakfast.
He motioned toward a metallic platform in the corner of the room. It looked like something between a medical scanner and a piece of military hardware. Circular base, steel conduits running through its spine, sensors hanging overhead like a halo made by someone who didn't believe in angels. The kind of machine built to measure the worth of what's left of you after the world's done taking everything else.
"Step on it," he said. "We'll check your corruption rate and try to determine the Rank of the Eidolon that attacked you."
I sighed and as soon I got up, the soldiers tensed. Apparently, standing was a threat now. I stepped onto the platform, and it buzzed under my feet like a machine irritated by my existence. Lights scanned over me from head to toe, and the monitor filled with lines and symbols I couldn't read.
Mike frowned. "That's… weird."
I raised an eyebrow. "Weird how? The good kind or the 'you're-gonna-die-before-lunch' kind?"
He scratched his chin. "I can't pinpoint the exact Rank of the Eidolon that turned you. Usually, we get a signature trace, but yours is... blurred. Almost like interference."
"Is that a bad thing?"
He shrugged. Of course he shrugged. "It's… not great. I'll just label it A-Rank for now. That should keep the paperwork gods happy."
He typed something, and a small printer spat out a card. He handed it to me. "Take this to the counter outside. They'll give you your suppressants. Keep them close and don't skip doses, or you'll end up draining someone dry before your brain even realizes what you're doing."
I raised a brow.
He sighed. "It means dead. Probably after taking a few people with you."
"Charming," I said, taking the card.
As I left the room, the soldiers' eyes followed me like they were already planning where to shoot. I didn't blame them. Malforms didn't have a great track record for not going feral mid-lunch.
Outside, the counter guy barely looked up from his screen. His tag read Euko Yami.
"Card," he said flatly.
I handed it over. He scanned it, reached under the desk, and dropped a small silver canister in front of me. Looked like an inhaler and a grenade had a baby.
"How many do I take?" I asked.
"Two."
"And when am I supposed to take them?"
He finally looked up, smirking. "You'll figure it out."
I stared at him for a few seconds, wondering if this was his version of customer service. "Do I at least get my card back?"
"No."
"Then how do I get more of this stuff?"
He pointed lazily to a poster on the wall — HALO DIVISION: PROTECTING WHAT'S LEFT OF HUMANITY.
"You want another? Buy it yourself. But if you're too broke for that, then enlist."
"Yeah," I said, pocketing the canister. "I'll get right on that."
I left before sarcasm turned into assault. The hallway smelled like antiseptic and fear, and I didn't bother asking for a ride home, because I didn't even have money for a bus.
Walking seemed like the universe's way of reminding me I was still broke. The streets outside were quiet, unnervingly so. Maybe people learned not to hang around places where Eidolons recently tried to suck out souls. Sensible bastards.
It didn't take long to reach my apartment. When you have nothing, distance isn't measured in miles, it's in how many regrets you can count before the door creaks open.
Inside, everything was exactly how I left it: unwashed dishes, half-burnt lamp, a mattress that squeaked like it had PTSD. I went to the bathroom, turned on the sink, and splashed cold water on my face.
That's when I froze.
The guy in the mirror wasn't me. Not completely. My hair—once black—was white. Pure white, like I'd lost a fight with a snowstorm.
"...Oh, for f***'s sake," I muttered.
Before I could decide whether to laugh or punch something, a voice echoed in my head. Smooth, calm, almost amused.
"White does look good on you."
I stiffened. My eyes darted around the bathroom, checking corners, ceiling, everything. Nobody. Nothing. Just me and my new ghost-chic aesthetic.
"Who's there?" I asked quietly.
A low chuckle vibrated through my skull.
"Silly human. You won't find me there. I'm in here."
I blinked. "In… my apartment?"
"No." The voice grew sharper, darker. "Inside you."
I stared at my reflection, only to see that the white-haired stranger staring back smirked before I did.
And that's when it hit me... whatever the hell happened back there didn't end when I woke up. It started.