Dawn was a gray smudge above crooked rooftops. Han pressed his forehead against the cold metal wall of his makeshift shelter and let out a shaky breath. The nighttime rain had seeped in, soaking his blanket and leaving everything smelling of rust and defeat. Not that he was unused to it, but things felt different this morning—sharper, somehow. The only warmth came from his wrist, where the dog's bite pulsed quietly under his sleeve, a persistent ember that refused to go out.He blinked up at the sky, wondering—not for the first time—if he'd just snapped. After all the loss, the nights he'd spent trying not to cry, maybe he'd crossed some invisible edge. People talked to themselves all the time to stay sane, right? And "seeing things"? Well, that was a whole other bargain he didn't want to cash in.Han stuffed his tattered blanket into his old backpack, checked that his notebook was dry, and fumbled for the last corner of a granola bar hidden in his pocket. He nibbled on it, each bite turning stale and chalky in his mouth, but he forced it down anyway. Moving meant thinking, and thinking was better than fear.He stood, every muscle cold and stiff, and tried to ignore the ache deep in his bones. The city was awake now: distant car horns, voices echoing under bridges, the thick smell of frying dough drifting from a corner stall. Life went on whether you were ready or not.He wandered aimlessly, letting his feet choose their path. There was a strange, nervous energy in him, like the city itself was holding its breath. People hustled to bus stops or argued quietly on corners, umbrellas blooming like flowers in the drizzle. Han watched them pass by, untouchable in their routines.Every so often, he caught himself glancing at pools of shadow, half-expecting that cryptic blue dog to step out. It was ridiculous, but some part of him wanted it. Needed proof that yesterday wasn't just a sick joke his mind was playing.He ducked into the alley behind the bakery, stomach rumbling. No scraps out yet. A chubby old cat glared at him from a cardboard box, daring him to try for its spot. Han just nodded at it and kept on, hugging himself for warmth.In his pocket, the notebook called. Han slipped it out, flipping through pages that now seemed wild and impossible: frantic sketches of golden and silver eyes, swirling words—LOOK, QUEST—and the outline of a dog formed from broken lines and restless thoughts.The bite mark pulsed, a gentle warmth that spread into his palm and faded. For a second, a blurry message flickered in his mind:Han startled, almost dropping the notebook. He knuckled the sleep from his eyes and swore under his breath. As if summoned by his nerves, a memory flashed: years ago, his mom laughing in a sunlit kitchen, his dad teaching him how to hammer a nail straight. Real or imagined? Most days, Han wasn't sure anymore.He wiped his nose on his sleeve and shoved the notebook away. There wasn't time to sit around going crazy.The junkyard was already busy when Han arrived. Mr. Bell stood near the gate, jaw working on the stub of a cigarette. "Late again," he called.Han managed a half-smile. "Stayed up looking for a stray."Bell gave him a wary look, then shrugged. "If you start foaming, I'm locking you out." But his tone was softer, almost worried. Han wondered if Bell really noticed—or cared—when Han's wrist glowed through his sleeve.Work helped. Han lost himself in the grind of unscrewing battered radios, yanking coils of copper from the guts of old appliances. The sharp scent of metal and oil filled the air, and he let his thoughts drift with the clatter of scrap.Sometimes, in the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement—a flash of blue fur, a shadow that lingered too long. Every time he looked, nothing was there. Still, the warmth on his wrist never faded.During a break, Han found a quiet corner by a stack of tires. He peeled back his sleeve. The mark danced with faint, pulsing light. His heart hammered. "What do you want from me?" he whispered, desperate to hear something, to understand.Nothing. Just the drip of rain and the squeak of a distant crow.He turned the page in his notebook and wrote it down anyway, filling the space with messy, angry words: "I'm scared. Why me?" He drew another set of eyes, this time with tears.A sudden shout startled him. Two men—strangers, both tall, dressed in sharp, black coats—talked to Mr. Bell at the gate. Han shrank back, instinct screaming caution. Bell shook his head, gesturing away from Han's spot.Han's stomach dropped. Were they looking for him? The system's warning from the day before echoed: Prepare yourself. He pressed back into the shadow of the tires, heart hammering.The men left as quickly as they'd come. Han waited until the air felt safe again. When he dared step out, he found a footprint in a patch of mud—too large, oddly shaped, glowing faint blue. A paw print, like a hidden signature. He crouched close, pressing a finger into the impression.Warmth tingled through him, and another message slipped into his mind—not words, but a feeling, like someone saying: You're not alone.Was it comfort or a warning? Han didn't know, but for the first time since the bite, he realized how much he missed someone—anyone—just telling him he mattered, that he wasn't invisible.He wandered the edge of the city, trailing his finger along fence rails cold with dew. His mind spun with worry. What if the men came back? What if he truly was losing it? Or worse, what if this was real and he was needed for something huge and beyond his broken strength?He found refuge beneath a willow by the river. The branches hung low, old and gentle, making a hidden cave where Han could disappear for a while. He curled up in the roots, feeling childish but safe, and let himself cry quietly, soft so no one would hear.He slept, fitful and tense, haunted by dreams of glowing paw prints and voices whispering in the dark. He woke in the late afternoon to kids laughing somewhere far away.Han sat up, wiping his face. He pulled out the notebook and looked at all the messy evidence that something impossible was happening to him. He started a new page:"If I run, I run forever. But if I face it…maybe things change."He watched the light on his wrist, saw it flare and dim with his heartbeat, and felt—however briefly—brave.The shadows felt a little thinner. Han stood, stretched, and took the first honest breath of the day.He wasn't just surviving today. He was choosing to move forward, whatever waited for him in the darkness.And as the city's streetlights flickered awake and the sky turned gold at the edges, Han slipped out of hiding, not running, but walking—one small step at a time toward whatever future "the system," the dog, the darkness, or fate wanted to throw his way.
