I woke to the familiar ache in my shoulder, a dull throb that had become my constant companion, but it was manageable now—not the firestorm it had been right after the crash. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the apartment, and for the first time in days, I felt like I could handle things on my own. No more relying on others to fetch water or help me to the bathroom. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, testing my weight. A sharp twinge shot through my chest, but I gritted my teeth and stood anyway. Progress.
Miko was back with me now, transferred from Elena's apartment the night before once she was stable enough to move. She'd insisted on coming home, her cat ears perking up defiantly despite the pain. "I miss our space," she'd said, and I hadn't argued. Sylvia had helped carry her over, fussing like a mother hen the whole way.
Speaking of Sylvia—she was already in the kitchenette, stirring something on the hot plate we'd scavenged. Her fox tail swished as she turned, spotting me upright. "Look who's mobile. Morning, handsome. Feeling like a new man?"
I chuckled, wincing a bit as I shuffled over. "Close enough. I can do things by myself now—no more babying."
She arched an eyebrow, her amber eyes twinkling. "Oh? Well, too bad. I'm sticking around to help anyway." She plated up some oatmeal, handing me a bowl. "And don't argue; you know I won't leave even if you tell me to."
I sighed, taking the bowl with a nod. She was right—Sylvia had that stubborn streak, and honestly, her presence was a comfort. "Fine, but just light stuff. I need to get back into routine."
Routine. That's what I clung to. After breakfast, I dressed carefully, the bandages pulling taut but holding. Work called—Hank had been understanding about my "accident," but bills didn't pay themselves. I headed to the general store, more cautious than ever. Every shadow seemed suspicious, every customer a potential threat. I scanned faces, kept my back to walls, and avoided small talk with anyone new.
Hank greeted me with a gruff nod, his bearded face breaking into a rare smile. "Good to see you back, kid. Place fell apart without you—shelves half-empty, customers complaining." He clapped me on the good shoulder, careful but firm. "We're short-handed now. Need to hire a new person, but this time, I'll be more careful. Background checks, the works. Can't have another... incident."
I nodded, stacking boxes with deliberate movements, the pain a constant reminder. "Yeah. Speaking of favors... any chance you could pull some strings for me? Something off the books."
Hank eyed me, then grunted. "Depends. But yeah, I owe you for sticking around. Consider it done." He didn't press for details, and I didn't offer—the favor was a lifeline, one I'd reveal when the time came. For now, it was enough.
Shift over, I pocketed my pay and headed home, the winter chill biting but invigorating. The apartment was quiet when I entered, but Miko was up—sort of. She was propped on the mattress, flipping through an old magazine Sylvia had brought, her cat tail flicking slowly. She could move a bit now, shuffling around with help, but not with her usual grace. No more leaping onto counters or curling up in impossible positions.
"Hey, you," she purred weakly, setting the magazine aside. I knelt beside her, kissing her forehead.
"Looking better. Able to move a little?"
She shifted, wincing. "A bit. Not like before." A mischievous glint entered her eyes. "Remember back at the old house? You always teased me about how flexible I was—in bed, especially. Twisting like a pretzel just to drive you crazy."
I laughed, the sound easing some tension. "Yeah, well, you'll get back to that. Europe awaits—plenty of time to practice."
She sighed, leaning against me. "After all this... Europe better be worth it. The pain, the running... "
I held her close. "It is. Safer streets, real rights for hybrids. We'll make it."
The door opened then—Sylvia, arms full of groceries. "Brought supplies. And Elena's on her way; figured we'd do dinner together."
Elena arrived soon after, carrying a pot of soup she'd whipped up. We gathered in the living room, the four of us around the small table, plates steaming with food. Laughter flowed—Sylvia teasing about my "heroic" hobble, Elena sharing diner gossip. For a moment, it felt normal.
Then, as we dug in, the conversation halted—screams pierced the air from outside, sharp and terrified. We froze, forks midway. I rushed to the window, peering into the twilight. Chaos on the street: figures running, a man—Trent?—no, wait, the news had said he was dead. But the screams were hybrid voices, cut short by shouts and sirens. Police lights flashed soon after, the scene devolving into a standoff, echoes of the protests we'd fled.
We waited, tense, until silence returned. Dinner resumed, but the mood was somber. Europe couldn't come soon enough.