Impasse

52. Everything

Numb.

That is the best way to describe what Jet has been feeling.

No thoughts, no emotions, nothing.

Just a black hole full of white noise that never seems to end. A suffocating void, like drowning in silence.

Hollow.

That word barely scratches the surface of the emptiness inside him, expanding with every breath, threatening to consume him. It even has a taste, like charred basil—acrid and dry, clinging to his tongue. Every beat of Jet's heart is a cruel reminder that he is still here, and Kai isn't.

Em leads him to the room where Kai is being prepared for the morgue. The hallway is a sea of muted grays and pale blues, like a passage for ghosts. Fluorescent light cast harsh shadows across the walls and the sterile floor. Each step Jet takes is heavy, as though that floor wants to swallow him whole, drag him down into that numb, hollow darkness, where he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to feel.

Traditionally, all family members would be permitted in the room. But Mali's grief had spiraled into uncontrollable hysteria, her screams and wails echoing through the walls until Rome took her home. Jet has to perform the final preparations on the body alone.

The room is sterile, impersonal, like a macabre painting, stripped of all light and color. Antiseptic and blood still linger in the air, scents that Jet can't quite shake. The single guerney is positioned in the middle of the room, allowing plenty of space for family members if needed. The sheets are crisp, too clean, their stark whiteness almost a mockery.

Kai lies on his back, legs perfectly straight and arms at his sides. His body has been cleaned, but that effort only accentuates the unnaturalness of the rest of him. Kai's lips are a haunting shade of blue, his skin a sickly, almost translucent white. His eyes have sunk into their sockets, hollow and empty. All lines of emotion are gone from his face. There's no trace at all of the snarky, tenacious little brother Jet knows. Only a stiff, unrecognizable shell which now wears a stoic expression, too still to be called calm.

Jet's stomach roils, a wave of nausea rising from deep inside him. He forces it down, back into that hollow void. There's something important he has to do. He lights the incense first, and the scent of jasmine and sandalwood wafts through the air, the smoke swirling around him as he murmurs the first prayer. Lighting the candle is next, placing it at Kai's feet so the fire can guide Kai's spirit into the next life. Picking up the oil, he applies one drop to his fingers, tracing a circle on his little brother's forehead.

He lifts Kai's limp hands. The fingers are still warm, as though Kai's body is reluctant to let go. The sensation sends a jolt through Jet's system—a tiny spark of hope that he quickly stamps out. There's no pulse beneath the warmth. Jet presses his little brother's hands palm to palm in the sacred ritual of the wai over Kai's chest, as is expected.

His gaze drifts down to the ouroboros on Kai's forearm. The blue lines of ink mock him. Eternity, renewal, belonging. Those were the reasons Kai got it in the first place. But ouroboros means something else too: survival. And Kai hadn't survived.

Jet moves the incense so that it burns at Kai's side, whispering one final prayer. Driven by some crazy impulse, he brushes the hair away from Kai's closed eyes, then gently rests his forehead against his little brother's.

Still warm.

Why?

Why are you still warm, Kai?

It's a fleeting sensation, like the last beams of sunshine before nightfall. Even though he expects no answer, the haunting silence slams into Jet with such force he pitches forward for the second time that night. A raw, gnawing ache builds up inside his chest. The pain is so deep, so visceral, it threatens to swallow him whole, trap him in this stark, sterile room, until he's turned into the same empty shell that Kai has transformed into.