Impasse

41. Choice

This is a different kind of cold. Not just a chill. It's a bone-deep, numbing cold that creeps through his entire body, leaving his skin clammy and his senses dulled. The kind of cold that makes him question whether bones can actually go numb, a sensation that feels more like a heavy, damp fog than a sharp sting.

The logical part of his brain insists that at this time of night, the temperature usually hovers around twenty-three to twenty-six degrees. Even when the blistering sun sets in Thailand, the heat only eases slightly. He should be warm, maybe even sweating, but instead, he's shivering uncontrollably.

Jet forces his eyes open. The world around him is a blur. Oppressive silence presses in, making his head buzz and his ears ring. The grit beneath his cheek is like shards of glass against his skin, every tiny grain digging in painfully, making his face prickle with a mix of sweat and dirt. He can taste the saltiness of it on his lips, mingled with something metallic.

The ground under him is wet. Not with rain—there's no moisture in the air, no fresh scent of rainfall. The wetness is something else, something sticky that soaks through his clothes.

Get up, Jet.

He rolls onto his knees, muscles screaming in protest, stiff and uncooperative. A searing pain stabs through his side, tearing a gasp from his throat.   The sound is rough, desperate, turning into a wet cough that rattles his chest, each tormenting convulsion forcing his body to curl in on itself. A coppery taste fills his mouth, thick and unmistakable. He spits, and a dark stain splatters the ground. Blood. His.

Nail's face flickers in his mind, the empty handle of a box cutter dangling from one hand. Jet's own hand instinctively moves to his side, where the pain radiates outwards in waves. He can feel the blade, a jagged foreign object tearing at his insides, buried too deep to pull out himself. It's a strange, surreal sensation, knowing it's there but not being able to feel the sharpness of it pressing against his skin. The silk of his shirt clings to him like a second skin, heavy and slick with blood. The fabric pulls against the wound with every movement, aggravating the pain, making him wince.

You ruined the shirt Luca gave you, idiot.

The absurdity of the thought jolts him. A bitter laugh bubbles up, only to die in his throat, choked off by another wave of pain. His legs shake uncontrollably beneath him, but he forces them to move. Each step is an agonizing effort, every muscle in his body protesting. He clamps his right arm tight against his side, trying to hold himself together. His left hand reaches out, searching for something to steady himself with.

The ground beneath him is unsteady, as if the earth itself is shifting, swaying under his feet. His vision swims, and he can barely make out the shapes around him. But then his hand connects with something solid—a wall. The rough texture of the concrete is a welcome anchor, something real to hold onto. He presses his forehead against the cool surface, trying to catch his breath, each inhale a ragged, painful rasp.

Wall. There's a wall. Follow the wall, Jet.

He takes another step, his fingers scraping against the rough surface. The pain flares up again—blinding agony that makes him want to collapse. Jet digs his teeth into his bottom lip, forcing his body upright. The wall is his lifeline, guiding him forward, even as every part of him screams to stop, to rest.

Follow it. Just follow it.

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"Do you feel better now?" Mali glances sideways at Kai as they make their way down the street. It's the first time in a while either of them have stayed up this late--other than to study--and Kai is grateful he didn't have to sort through his feelings alone.