"I must say I'm fascinated at your developing disciplines, Jì Lü."

Both people and vehicles alike are yet to pour over Privilegius's streets when Raiden bashes through The Mare's door, invoking such a reaction and a quip from the owner.

"It's Jí Lì, ma'am."

However, it's unusual for the ma'am to have woken up at 07:45.

Raiden reads the huge number consuming most of today's calendar's space. April 3. And early dates on April are the busiest delivery days for the lining conglomerates in their waiting list.

As known as the only days which excite the ma'am other than Chinese New Year.

"Whatever. The meanings don't differ that much after all." Grandma Quartz's gaze lingers on the body-sized mirror stationed at the far edge of the shop, inspecting the loose brown and silver strands of her hair. "Anyway, there are deliveries to six clients today, and you'll handle them all. We also have nine tomorrow—"

"What's with the boom, ma'am?"

"Qingming Festival, Tomb-Sweeping Day, Happy Death Day...anything? It's in two days time, you foolish hare." Her tone's enough to make any wrestlers cower in shame.

"You mean that day—"

"...when we visit our relatives' tombs and pray for their souls? Yes. Sort the deliveries out. Arrange the bouquets. You're the best I have here, and I won't want Sanaa—that gawking intern—to meddle with those bouquets again!"

There's nothing Raiden can do besides nodding his head while slipping into the storage room, beginning to gather the requested flowers.

He barely has time to contemplate over his deceased relatives, shall he have some.

👣

"Raiden. Where is he?"

The bell's jingles sync with the man's rapid stammers. Mockeries fling out of the current visitors' mouths at the sight of his patched and bloodied tan-shirt.

A spectacled adult, fit enough to join WWE, towers not far above Grandma Quartz's slender, masculine posture. He's got a concise accent, sharp and direct. Non-English.

Grandma Quartz's trained arms fold in a rigid stance. He doesn't seem like he can afford, or willing, to purchase a bouquet here. Merely a nuisance. "He's busy."

"I need to...Raiden."

The voice was there last night, during Raiden's first hours at the shelter. Wails and screams mixed with scratches on the walls next door. Cracked nails combined with shallow notes.

The plaque on his door back at the homeless shelter states 'Saba Kors, Bangladeshi'.

It was only a traumatic nightmare, wasn't it?

They also barely know each other besides exchanging eye contacts and acknowledging nods since last night.

The man's eyes double themselves when they meet Raiden's narrow ones. He treads forward, ignoring Grandma Quartz's cries of dismay. Even when her martial arts displays themselves upon his muscles, he doesn't budge—mimicking a Terminator.

Raiden's heart skips several beats at once. His motor abilities react by shakily points some bougainvilleas by the stems to the man's chest.

"You must leave. Never return. The shelter."

"Why?"

"Creatures. Girl. Saw them last night...my room."

It's easier to understand morsels than this man's rambles. "Look, sir, I don't think you're—"

"Don't doubt me!" The man lunges forward, cornering Raiden's neck with his trembling fists and shoots unfocused pupils. "I swear. They'll come again. Almost died but I didn't. Just don't return. Warned you."

👣

Vermillion streaks paint the sky that it blends with the sleepy sun.

Sunsets used to be this monotonous. And so did his moderate life.

The buildings he passes from Grandma Quartz's flower shop whisper threats as he stumbles past. He daren't look inside for he fears what might be lurking there.

A pair of eyes, for example. Coal-colored like Saba's. The ones burning with equal determination and madness that might burn logs into ashes. And those which kept hinting to the mysterious punctures ripping his own arms.

Grandma Quartz had brought out her mighty cane and jiu-jitsu at the Hulkbuster's real life twin. So there's a fat chance that he won't haunt Raiden again, moreover after the lady waved a miniature of Rafflesia arnoldii at his face.

Hopefully so. He doesn't need to compress Grandma Quartz's recurrencing Parkinson for another time.

👣

The caretakers are tossing themselves like red-bulls when Raiden arrives at the lobby.

"What happened?" Raiden asks the receptionist—a stout woman named Margarita. Despite her calm attitude, her limbs remain decapitated.

"A jobless refugee has escaped after spreading...hoaxes to the others." The pause before the 'hoaxes' gives off her facade. "Everyone's panicked."

It doesn't take a college's degree to figure out who the said refugee is.

"As a long-term refugee, many have known him well. And they believed—"

"I don't."

"But he's always sensible. He won't lie to us. What motive was there? And the story was so vivid—"

"Ma'am, that guy could've been insane."

What's with these people and their easily-lured selves? Is it that easy to hand over their trusts to someone?

"I believe in Saba more than you, boy. And since he's emptied his room, no one dares to enter. Not even our future refugees. It's forever haunted by those blood-and-soul-sucking spirits he spoke of."

Saba's warnings continue to blare like a virtual siren.

What did Saba encounter, that he had to evacuate himself at the first crack of sunlight, shortly before Raiden's hasty departure to his occupation?

And what if he's the one 'sacrificed'—coerced to live in Saba's room?

"I'm sorry, boy, but changes must be made. You're officially moving. Visitors keep on coming, and you're the newest one here."

Margarita's hennaed palm flails a contract regarding Raiden's personal information. She's just revised his room from 267 to 268—formerly Saba's. However, there isn't any awe in her voice. Stoicism instead.

So soon. Why is time being unfair to him?

"There'll be a charming girl coming, named—oh, isn't that the one?"

Her sentence has successfully shushed the chaotic surroundings. All available eyes are trained to the feminine figure ascending the steps with various belongings in tow. Random fabrics wrap around her like she's a gift worth keeping.

And Margarita, the dear old nun-like caretaker, can't resist the urge to befriend the girl, who's hopefully less skeptical than this blockheaded Raiden.

Within that spare second, her arrival triggers rumors to burn within the savannah of foreigners. Many are positive, but those upsetting still silently creep behind.

All because of her remarkable glance at anyone but Raiden.

It should've been understandable since he's the one standing alone. His face and age also strengthens that opinion. It's logical that he's the first one coming to her view.

But his gut says otherwise. Her barely-blinking blue pupils are why.

How his stupidly hopeful and unromantic heart wishes that it's someone he knows. Someone he met the day before, healed beyond logic. Someone who knows all the passages to his heart.

But she can't be stalking him that far, right? That can't be Tayana. No matter how those blue eyes and peeking hazel bangs contradict his self-convincing.

The girl reveals nothing but her eyes and above until, "Natanya Antonia?"

She only needs a duchess-like nod to captivate Raiden's cancerous, love-void heart.

👣

It's his fourteenth hour living in this foreign environment and he's yet to adapt.

Be it the random languages smashing through all corners, or the strong announcements of one's culture—who's wearing a complete turban merely for dinner?

Raiden's not the one to faith upon superstitions. Nor supernatural tragedies. Or otherworldly fictions. And his Catholicity remains firm on its foundation, even when these foreigners apply quakes to it.

"You'll be dead tomorrow morning like Saba said."

"Let those devils munch your so-called faith."

"Happy screaming!"

Yet, Raiden shrugs the diversely-tongued crowd like swatting a fly, clicking his spiced tongue and barges through the rickety door.

"Detestable horde." He said, barely audible through the door's cracks. The cries and jeers still leak through, thankfully drowning his indignation.

He counts—a bet with himself—on how many seconds they will remain there. He's reached thirty when loud slams reverberate, pausing the exclamations. Followed by flooding sentences in a language he doesn't know—Thai? Vietnamese? Israeli?—and growls of dismay.

It must be the caretakers interfering since the protesters retreat like bent hyenas.

When Raiden's assured that the silence will be temporarily permanent, he peeks out of his door, gazing around for any livings. However, when nothingness greets him, he slams the door back to its frame.

No one's there to check on him within the 'cursed' room, anyway.

His walls are white, flawed with tracks of fingernails. The lamps are dim and yellow, shining little light on what's lying on the harsh ceramics beneath his toes. The drawers aren't where they're supposed to be, indicating Saba's speed while packing.

But a certain object, almost minuscule, catches his attention. He's attracted to it like a fly is to scents. And the smell attracts his nose like a bumblebee.

It's shaped like a thumb-sized Pacman, unlocking its mouth. It also carries the weight of rain, grass, dirt, and wind. Along with someone's blood on its surface. Almost invisible or missed normally, but not to an abnormal florist.

What's an anemone doing here? Can it be the same one that he found yesterday, shortly before his departure? Who's responsible for this scam?

Whoever's behind this must've contributed to Saba's insanity and irrational fear.

"I'm doomed." Placing the wilting petal on the stern windowsill, he mourns to the lightless night, drumming heartbeat within his chest.

His unstable limbs extend to their maximum toleration as he bends high and low, searching for more blood or any signs of any struggles. But there are none. And now the petal looks like an inevitable mistake the culprit fails to notice.

What if they return tonight, noticing their job hasn't finished?

A tremor shakes his insides with a magnitude above five. His faith's root is losing its grip, unclasping each branch from the ground. Saba's imperfect warning tosses other thoughts out of his head, earning every—"Excuse me."

Raiden's head snaps to the source of the feminine voice, alerted at every possibility.

He locked the door, didn't he?

"C-Coming."

He almost splinters his ankle as he darts off his croaking bed. A paper-like silhouette rests exactly beneath the door, which borders the outer ceramics and the ones within. Licorice-smelled.

He examines its content with dread. In neatly flattering text writes 'I'm watching you'.

His hand reaches for the knob and yanks it open within a breath's heave. The corridor outside is still deserted, and the atmosphere is colder than his fanned room. There are voices from every direction, but not prominent. Subtle, personal. Room chats.

Locking the door twice—the best it can do, Raiden shambles back to his wrinkled bed, tossing his board-tensed back. "No sleeping tonight."

👣

Every tick of the clock are reminders of his upcoming doom that no one can prevent.

His temples throb. His bottom lip is smeared with his sugary blood. Sweat hangs from his eyelashes. An invisible barbell rests upon his torso. And his breathing rate is at its highest level—more than during his first interview with Grandma Quartz.

And his stomach, being the most naive part of his body, craves for carbohydrate, lipid, and glucose.

"No sleeping tonight." He doesn't need coffee to stay awake. All he needs is a dose of paranoia and anxiety. For the conversations next door have entirely vanished, and so have traces of sleepless individuals.

A part of him wants to surrender, risking himself to be vulnerable to the attacker. But the other part heeds Saba's announcements more than Raiden allows.

Tosses and turns. Bad memories. Saba's warnings. Tayana's conditions. Ece's much-needed disappearance. Those have haunted his quiet thoughts.

But soft footsteps haven't. They're approaching, accompanied by windy whizzes. An equally soft click lands first on his jammed door knob.

It's supposed to be stuck by a key. But now it's wide open.