The world was nothing but a high-pitched ringing, a single note piercing through my skull. The heat was a bite against my skin, but the shockwave had left me pinned to the ground, unable to move.

  When my eyelids fluttered open, dust drifted through the air like gray snow. Through the veil, I saw a pair of leather shoes. Flawless. Dark suit trousers, without a single wrinkle, in the middle of the chaos.

  I slowly looked up.

  A man was standing over me. His face was nothing but a collection of white bandages, betraying no expression. A hat shielded his forehead, and black glasses concealed his gaze. His right hand was raised toward the burning debris; the flames weren't being extinguished they seemed to be sucked into his palm, vanishing into his flesh like water into sand.

  His lips moved beneath the cotton. The sound reached me in snatches, muffled by the buzzing in my ears.

  "...the girl. Now."

  He wasn't helping me. He was commanding.

  I dragged myself toward her. My wounds were now nothing more than cold pulsations. I lifted her limp body, settling her onto my shoulders with a groan of pain. The crystal block had fractured during the explosion, clearing a narrow path toward the exit.

  I crossed the threshold, staggering. The air outside wasn't any purer saturated with ozone and smoke but it was breathable. I laid the schoolgirl down on the yellowed grass. The little dog approached, its fur singed, and sat near us in silence.

  The man in bandages stepped out from the smoking carcass of the house. The last embers died out as he passed, as if life itself were withdrawing from the place. He adjusted his cuff with surgical precision before approaching us.

  "Are you alright, sir?" His voice was low, monotonic, devoid of all emotion.

  "I... the girl. She's not breathing."

  He knelt. His bandaged fingers pressed against the victim's jugular.

  "She is in shock." He placed his hands on her chest. A draft of cold air seemed to emanate from him. The girl jumped suddenly, her eyes widening in a spasm of terror; she gripped the doctor's arm before immediately falling back into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "Who are you?" I whispered, short of breath.

  He didn't look at me. His black glasses remained fixed on the devastated horizon, where Ryoga and Shade continued their mutual massacre.

  "Thank the dog. He is the one who guided my steps."

  My hand throbbed. A pulsating pain, rhythmic with my heartbeat. The shard of glass was still lodged in my palm, the dried blood forming a dark crust.

  "Your hand," he noted coldly.

  "Occupational hazard... I'm not paid enough for this."

  He didn't laugh. He simply placed a hand on my shoulder. A sudden, almost unbearable warmth spread through my veins. My body was forced to relax. Every muscle turned heavy, as if my bones were made of lead.

  "I am a doctor, Tanaka Kenji. As for your hand, that will have to wait for the hospital. If I pull this glass out now, you'll bleed to death."

  "How... how do you know my name?"

  His glasses reflected my blood-stained face.

  "You are wearing a uniform with your name on the badge. And you are in terrible shape. Sleep."

  My vision fragmented. The man's silhouette became a towering shadow, and then nothing.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  The smell of antiseptic woke me up. I didn't scream. I just opened my eyes, my body swaddled in white bandages. My hand was encased in a rigid splint.

  The Chief was there, sitting on a plastic chair. He looked like he'd aged ten years. His eyes avoided mine.

  "You've come back from the brink, Kenji."

  "Why did you lock me out?" my voice was a raspy croak.

  He stood up abruptly, adjusting his police jacket. He was sweating.

  "We... we couldn't take any risks. The national alert... We thought you were the polymorph. We're all scared, Kenji. Even me."

  He didn't wait for my answer. He headed for the door, fleeing the conversation just as he had fled the danger.

  "Rest up. We'll talk later."

  The door closed on his hurried departure, then pushed open again almost immediately. A man walked in. White coat, hair perfectly slicked back, a fixed smile that didn't reach his eyes.

  "Good morning, Mr. Tanaka. I am Doctor Tanashi."

  I recognized him instantly. Not by his face which was no longer bandaged here but by that glacial presence. His glasses reflected the raw glare of the overhead neon lights.

  He approached my bed, clipboard in hand. He scribbled a few notes before leaning over me.

  "You seem to be recovering quickly. Too quickly for a normal human, perhaps?"

  Silence settled in the room, heavy as a concrete slab.

  "Tell me, Kenji... what were you really doing in that street? The alert ordered everyone to stay confined. No one is supposed to be out. Unless... you don't have a home to hide in?"

  His smile widened slightly. It was a loaded question. A silent accusation. In his eyes, I saw the reflection of my own terror: to him, I wasn't the hero of the burning house. I was suspect number one.