Riyu Shiven woke to the same sound she always did—the low hum of the refrigerator bleeding through the thin walls of her apartment. It wasn't an alarm. She'd stopped using those a long time ago. The noise grounded her, reminded her that something in this place was still doing its job.
The ceiling above her was cracked, a thin line running across it like a scar. She stared at it for a while, counting her breaths, waiting for the weight in her chest to loosen. Mornings were the hardest. Her thoughts arrived before her body did—overlapping, whispering, arguing among themselves like they'd been awake all night without her.
She pushed herself upright, long black hair falling into her face. Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened screen of her phone on the bedside table. Light brown skin, tired eyes, shadows she didn't remember earning. Twenty-something wasn't supposed to feel like this, she thought. It wasn't supposed to feel so… heavy.
The bathroom light flickered when she turned it on. She showered quickly, letting the water run hot against her back, hoping it would drown out the noise in her head. It never fully did, but it helped enough to get through the next few minutes. Steam fogged the mirror, and for a moment she was grateful she couldn't see herself clearly.
Black T-shirt. Black shorts. Simple. Safe. Familiar. Riyu liked clothes that didn't ask questions.
She sat on the edge of her bed afterward, staring at the small containers lined up neatly on her desk. They rattled softly when she touched them. The sound made her jaw tighten.
"I know," she murmured to no one. "I know."
She took them because she had to. Because the doctor said so. Because without them, the world twisted itself into something sharper, louder, more hostile than it already was. Still, every swallow felt like a quiet surrender. Another reminder that her mind didn't belong to her the way other people's minds did.
By the time she left her apartment, the sky was gray and undecided. The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals and old dust. Riyu locked the door behind her, checking it twice, then once more—just in case.
The convenience store was only a short walk away. She liked the predictability of the job: scanning items, counting change, greeting customers with a practiced smile that didn't require emotion. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, constant and numb, and sometimes she imagined they were holding her thoughts in place.
"Morning," her coworker said when she arrived.
Riyu nodded. "Morning."
Hours passed. Faces blurred together. Hands reached for snacks, drinks, cigarettes. Some people avoided her eyes. Others stared too long. She endured it all, the way she endured everything—quietly, carefully, making herself small.
When her shift finally ended, her legs ached and her head felt stuffed with cotton. The walk home should have been easy. Familiar streets. Familiar cracks in the pavement. Familiar silence.
She didn't hear them coming.
The moment was sudden—too fast to understand. Voices, harsh and close. Hands. Pain that bloomed before her mind could catch up. She stumbled, the world tilting violently, sounds smearing together into something distant and wrong.
Riyu fell.
The pavement was cold against her cheek. Her vision swam, the sky above her fractured into pieces that wouldn't line up. Somewhere nearby, footsteps retreated, blending back into the city as if nothing had happened.
She tried to move. Her body didn't listen.
As darkness crept in around the edges of her sight, one thought surfaced—quiet, tired, unbearably familiar.
I really don't like this.
And then everything went black.