Vincent awoke with a sharp intake of breath, hand instinctively flying to his neck where he expected to find the deep, jagged wound Rody had inflicted with the broken wine bottle. But there was nothing-no blood, no pain, just smooth, unbroken skin. His heart pounded as he took in his surroundings. This wasn't the bistro, or the cold, sterile space of a hospital. The room was warm, softly lit by the morning sun filtering through the curtains, and distinctly domestic. It felt lived-in.
Vincent's mind raced, trying to piece together how he was still alive, where he was, and, most confusing of all, why he felt a strange, inexplicable sense of calm. This shouldn't be possible. He should be dead.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Vincent turned his head sharply, his body tensing as Rody walked into the room, carrying two mugs of coffee. But this wasn't the Rody he remembered from his world-the one who had looked at him with a mixture of fear and desperate resolve before stabbing him. This Rody was different. His auburn hair was tousled, his expression relaxed, almost... content?
"Morning," Rody said, his voice warm and casual, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He set one of the mugs on the bedside table beside Vincent and took a sip from his own.
Vincent's mind spun. He didn't know what to say, how to react. "Rody...?" His voice was hoarse, uncertain.
Rody glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Vincent blinked, trying to make sense of everything. "Why am I here? How am I...alive?"
Rody's smile faltered for a moment, replaced by a look of confusion. "Alive? What are you talking about, Vincent?" He set down his coffee and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in closer. "You had a rough night, but you're fine now. Don't worry about it."
Vincent stared at him, trying to reconcile this Rody with the one he knew. But then, a strange thought struck him. What if this wasn't his world? What if this was some kind of alternate reality? The idea was absurd, but everything about this situation was impossible. Still, he found himself not caring as much as he should. The anxiety he should've felt was overshadowed by the simple fact that Rody was here, he was alive and Rody seemed.... different.
Vincent's eyes darted over Rody's face, searching for any hint of the man he knew-the man who had turned on him, who had driven that broken bottle into his neck. But this Rody... this wasn't the same person. The differences were subtle but unmistakable. The way he carried himself, the confident ease in his movements, the way he looked at Vincent without the fear, without the hesitation.
"I remember... I was in the bistro," Vincent murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate reality around him. "You... you stabbed me. The fire-"
Rody's expression softened, but there was no trace of the remorse or guilt Vincent might have expected. Instead, there was only a gentle concern, as if Vincent was speaking nonsense. "You must have had a nightmare," Rody said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from Vincent's forehead. The touch was tender, almost intimate, sending a shiver down Vincent's spine. "You've been working too hard again, haven't you?"
Vincent flinched at the touch, more out of shock than discomfort. This wasn't right. "This... this isn't real," he muttered, more to himself than to Rody. He pulled away, clutching the blanket tightly around himself as if it might offer some protection from the confusion and fear that swirled within him. "You're not... my Rody."
Rody's smile faltered, but he didn't withdraw. Instead, he leaned in closer, his green eyes locking onto Vincent's. "What are you talking about, Vincent?" There was a strange edge to his voice, something almost possessive. "I'm right here. I'm yours. What else matters?"
