Chapter 5 - Familiar Routine

The convenience store is more chaotic than I remember; objects choke the shelves in erratic patterns. Boxes full of goods, half unpacked, sitting strewn about.

The light feels duller, though every bulb burns fiercely.

My eyes automatically check the shadows. Every aisle feels slightly too long, like the space between the shelves stretches when I am not looking directly at it.

I hear my boss moving stock in the storeroom. Boxes thud, plastic crates scrape, a steady rhythm that draws me back to reality.

As I approach the back of the store, one sound inserts itself. The fridges hum.

Humming.

My teeth grind.

I glance at the lights.

Goosebumps prick my skin.

I enter the back area.

My boss hears me from the adjacent storeroom and calls out a greeting, loud and casual, before immediately going back to complaining out loud about stock issues. He says he’ll be there soon.

That sound of his voice feels like an anchor. It feels familiar, a sensation which I crave.

I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, letting it keep me in place. Then I move into the backroom office.

I’m met by the reek of cheap detergents, far harsher than I remembered.

Lockers and cleaning supplies crowd most of the room. An old desktop with my name badge sits on a small desk and chair.

I open the locker and start getting changed into my work uniform.

The motions are automatic.

Something in me slowly uncoils as I yield to routine. Not healing, not erasing, just folding into regimen until the memory of the past weeks is dulled.

It feels… right, to be here.

That realisation unsettles me, jarring against my usual habits.

Usually, I just hold on, barely scraping by while counting hours, often complaining and trying not to fall apart between tasks.

Today, work feels structured. Feels safe. A reality I know.

A place where nothing unreal can reach me.

Midway through buttoning my shirt, the boss walks into the backroom.

He stops immediately.

For a fraction of a second, I see the lady at the end of the hallway, and my hand begins to rise on instinct to warn her.

I go to shout, but reality flickers back. My boss stands, unharmed.

I see it on his face before he speaks, concern written in the lines of his face. His eyes are saying everything I need to know before he even gets the chance.

“God, Koan.”

He steps closer, seeming to hope for some trick of the light.

“You look terrible.”

His questions come rapidly.

“Am I badly ill? Did I see a doctor? How long? When did this start? Have you eaten? Have you slept? How much weight have you lost?”

I try to interject, but my voice falters. It sounds exhausted, worn out and strange, as if overused.

Most of what he says becomes a blur, noise my mind barely absorbs.

He is pacing now, hands half-raised as he describes what he sees and tries to fix what he cannot name.

I can feel him looking at me too closely, as he paces. He speaks enough for both of us, but I feel the warmth of his words. I enjoy the caring nature, even if his words go in one ear and out the other.

I need to explain what’s with me in a way that makes sense.

That hallway, BUZZING.

That park, CLICKING.

That blood, SQUELCHING.

Their bones CRUNCHING.

Their bodies THUDDING.

I immediately stop.

There is no version of that explanation that doesn’t sound like something I’ve been traumatised. Insanity at my age would be odd, but I guess it’s not unheard of.

So I lie.

“I got a bad flu,” I scraped out, realising how dry my mouth had become.

The boss pauses.

His expression shifts.

“Just a flu?”

I nod.

“Hardest hitting flu I have ever seen, Koan. Looks like someone dug you up this morning.”

He’s better off not knowing. Not that he would understand.

I explain my struggle with sleep, relentless coughing, and lack of appetite. The past week has drained me.

It’s not entirely untrue. Just carefully incomplete.

“…Why didn’t you say anything? I was worried, you know.”

I don’t have an answer I can give him.

So I don’t. My head tips in shame. This is the only person I actually speak to.

I don’t address the feeling, so I deflect.

“I think I’m past the worst of it. Definitely not contagious anymore.”

His gaze sharpens, but I continue anyway.

“I’m just really drained. I’m ready to work today, though.”

Shaking his head, he walks up to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.

He doesn’t believe me. Why would he?

He smiles a stern smile.

“You look like you should be in a hospital, not here.”

Hospital.

The word lands wrong.

“I’m going with you,” he says immediately. “We’re getting you checked out.”

Something in me resists hard.

No.

Leaving means losing this. This structure. This fragile sense that I’m still attached to something normal.

If I lose that, I don’t know what’s left.

So I say it before I can overthink it.

“Right now… I just need company for a bit.”

I can feel him weighing it up. His expression changes, showing both sides of the argument in his head.

Then he exhales, reluctantly.

“…You’re stubborn.”

I don’t respond.

Then more softly he adds:

“I’ve missed having you around, Koan. Even with your constant complaining.”

Something tightens in my chest at that.

His hand on my shoulder, giving me an affectionate squeeze, before he moves back to the door.

“I’ll give you a bit of time to settle in. I’ll check in soon, though.”

He leaves.

The door clicks shut as I sit down at the computer.

It wakes, and I am immediately greeted with digital clutter.

Files everywhere. Icons stacked and overlapping. Everything is out of order, like the system itself has been neglected for too long. Instead, I find steadiness in the task in front of me.

Dragging files. Sorting folders. Clicking through menus. Small tasks, one after another.

Rhythm returns. Mechanical. Predictable.

Gradually, the noise in my mind fades. Even my habitual headache, normally sparked by stress, feels more subdued.

I open the solitaire app and smile for the first time in weeks.

My eyelids feel weighted as I drag the cards.

The screen begins to blur at the edges.

I blink my heavy lids.

Once.

Twice.

***

Cold air.

Intense pressure.

A wet, powerful, commanding click.

Noooo!

My eyes snap open.

I’m not anywhere I recognise.

It’s a dark room, lit by a sliver of light blueish green, light coming from a small window at the top of the wall beside me.

Outside of it, I see the wrong sky.

I yell in frustration.

Shut up!

I flinch hard. Silencing me instantly.

Someone spoke to me, yet I didn’t hear it; I felt it.

It dawns on me that I must be trapped in that individual again, as no one else shares the room.

No, no, no… wake up, please. I can’t do this again.

They respond, annoyed.

Can you go for a stroll, your dist…

I try to freeze all thoughts. Sensing a pause from my host.

And then I understand something new.

I can really feel him if I pay attention, and he can feel me too.

Not physically. Not visually.

Internally.

Like, my awareness has been split.

Through him, I feel the damp cold of the air. The uneven ground. The unnatural stillness presses in from all sides.

I feel his dread, but oddly, some comfort too.

Is he comforted by my presence?

Beneath these surface emotions, something else toils.

A third stream of consciousness is trying to stabilise, but feels impossibly distant.

It’s familiar, like a childhood street, except you don’t know which home was yours.

I risk a question.

Who are you?

I ought to know. This is terrifying, and it’s not like I wish to be here.

He’s disoriented. Not just physically, but mentally, like my presence is interfering with his sense of self.

I feel his suspicion. His confusion as he ponders the question, and the way he keeps checking the metal box chained around his neck, without letting his attention linger on it too long.

I don’t know who he is, but I know he is just as uncomfortable with me as I am with him.

He’s thinking something, and I follow the thread he leaves behind.

He resists, but it’s weak.

I find three strands of thought.

That’s definitely not Caelan.

It has to be him trying to get to me.

That bastard is too cunning. I told him this technology was years away…

I don’t know what’s going on, but I try again to speak carefully into whatever mental space this is.

Can you tell me where I am?

Silence, both mentally and physically.

He’s reached new lows, sending a child in his stead.

That doesn’t help me at all, but before I can respond, I feel something split within him.

A sudden tearing pain.

It feels as though I was suddenly stripped and pushed into a blizzard.

My leg.

No.

His leg opens up and blood flows.

His breath falters, and mine follows, involuntarily.

For god’s sake, can I not be trapped in a host that isn’t actively dying!

I feel faint, as the fresh blood mixes with an overwhelming pain. His pant leg blooms crimson as I try to question what is happening.

This bond you’ve created is unstable, he thinks through clenched teeth.

The pain spikes, cutting him off, but I don’t like where it’s heading.

Too much. Too fast.

Our vision fractures.

His maddened thoughts become increasingly incoherent.

He collapses, and my mind rends as if viciously torn apart by a blunt saw.

I panic, as I’m trapped within another dying person.

We’re dimly aware of a call-and-response between ear-splitting clicks.

Those things are coming!

Get up now. I will not be stuck in here while you get eaten.

I have my own creatures to deal with, get the hell up!

I battle against his mental barriers.

A new pain erupts as I throw myself around this mental cage, my host completely unaware.

I DON’T WANT TO DIE AFTER ALL OF THIS!

The connection snaps.

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