Chapter 2 – The Weight of Breathing
The city didn't sleep.
Not in the way a city should. It didn't yawn or settle. It pulsed. Like a migraine behind glass—low and constant, just loud enough to keep the air taut. When the sun began to rise, it only made things worse. The light didn't warm the concrete. It exposed it.
I found a stairwell wedged between two buildings and crawled behind the dumpster just as the traffic picked up. The shadows there were tight. Greasy. I was still bleeding from my lip, and I hadn't stopped shaking. My ribs throbbed with every breath, but I didn't know how to tell if they were broken or just bruised.
People walked by like I was part of the garbage. A bundle of limbs and old fabric pressed against a rusted wall. I kept my face down. Let my dreadlocks cover my eyes. Stayed still, like prey pretending to be stone.
I waited until the sun was high enough to paint the alley gold. Then I moved.
Slow. Careful. Eyes always on the gaps.
My stomach screamed before my legs did. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten—if I'd eaten at all. Water was harder to think about. My tongue felt like it had grown a second skin, thick and cracked and useless. I spotted a half-empty plastic bottle left beside a bike rack and drank without checking. I knew it was stupid.
But I was past caring.
I walked until the edges of the city blurred together. Streets with no signs. Lights that flickered too long. Faces that didn't look directly at anything. The language barrier didn't help. I picked out fragments, but they didn't stitch into meaning.
The truth was—I didn't know how to ask for help. Not here. Not now.
Even if I found someone who could understand me, I didn't know what I'd say. "Hi. I woke up in your world. I don't know why I'm here. Please don't kill me."
Yeah.
That would go well.
By noon, I could barely keep walking. My right side flared every few steps. I pressed my hand to it, and my fingers came back tacky with red. I ducked into a corner store, hoping to blend in with the foot traffic. The guy behind the register glanced at me and frowned.
I reached for a bottle of water and some bread.
He said something in clipped Japanese. Sharp.
I didn't answer. Just placed the food on the counter and pointed at it.
He repeated himself. Louder.
I pulled the only thing I had—an American military dog tag I still wore around my neck. It was more habit than identity. I held it out like it meant something. His frown deepened. He reached under the counter.
I didn't wait to find out what for.
I grabbed the bottle and ran.
The bread got left behind. I tore the cap off the water and drank too fast, spilling half of it down my front. The sting in my ribs reminded me I wasn't built for running right now. I ducked behind a vending machine and collapsed into a crouch, panting so hard it made the shadows ring.
Nobody followed.
But my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The plastic bottle crinkled under my grip.
And then it happened again.
That pressure.
That slow, inward drag. Like the air around me narrowed into a tunnel. The sounds of the street dimmed. My pulse slowed. Not in a calming way—in a way that felt unnatural, like the world had briefly held its breath and hadn't decided whether to exhale.
I looked down at my chest.
My skin prickled.
And the air around me felt just a degree too clean. Like whatever was clinging to the city's bones—the rot, the grime, the tension—couldn't get close. I didn't feel strong. I didn't feel safe. But I felt… untouched.
Like something was buffering me from it all.
I stood and kept moving.
I didn't know where I was going. My legs just carried me forward, past apartment buildings and narrow stairs, through pockets of shadow and light. The tattoo on my arm ached. Not from the hits—it was something deeper. A kind of low burn, like the ink had soaked into the bone.
I kept touching it.
Not because I thought it could protect me.
But because it was the only thing I had that still felt real.
By late afternoon, the sky had turned the color of steel.
I found another alley near a rundown arcade and slid into it like a stray cat. I checked for cameras. For anyone watching. But this alley was dead. Nothing but old paint, crushed cans, and a busted vending machine humming like it knew secrets.
I sat down again.
Back to the wall.
And let the exhaustion pull me under.
The dream wasn't a dream.
Not really.
There was no shape. No voice. Just a feeling—like falling through thick light. I heard a heartbeat. Not mine. Slower. Older. I felt warmth behind my eyes. And something like wind brushing the insides of my ribs.
Then a whisper.
Not words.
Just intention.
A single pulse. And the faint sensation of something curling around my shoulder, light as ash and heavier than regret.
When I opened my eyes, the sky had gone orange.
And the city felt different.
I stood, confused at first by how steady my legs were.
The pain in my ribs had dulled to a throb. My jaw didn't ache the way it had. Even the bruises felt quieter, like they were drifting further from the surface of my skin. I blinked. Looked around. The alley was unchanged.
But I wasn't.
And I didn't know if that should scare me more than it did.
I walked back out into the street as night crept in. Lights flickered on. Old signs hummed to life. The world moved again, but slower, like it was waiting for something. Like me.
And I still didn't know who I was supposed to be.
But I knew this city wasn't normal.
I wasn't just lost.
I wasn't just foreign.
I was something the world hadn't accounted for.
And the longer I stayed breathing…
…the more it noticed.