𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

Pervert

He must've known I'd poke around his house. Of course, he did. Layza's not an idiot, and it's painfully obvious he already knew about my powers. Every move I've made feels like something he accounted for—like I'm playing chess against a grandmaster with a smug streak. I don't mind him wanting my help with his precious plant. After all, we both need each other.

But calling me pathetic? That's too low, even for him.

Still, I'll forgive him. For now. Only because he brought me food. He should be grateful for my forgiveness. Haha. Ha.

...I feel pathetic.

No wonder he hasn't kicked me out of his precious haven. But honestly, he's just as bad—no, worse—for not outright asking for my help. Made me waste two days running in circles when we could've sorted this out from the start.

After stuffing myself with the hearty meal, I watch as he disappears down the hallway, his robes trailing behind him like some spirit-world monarch. No explanation, no instructions—just poof, gone, leaving me alone with this impossible task.

I turn back to the plant, still pulsing faintly with whatever damage I'm supposed to fix. The warmth in my chest flickers weakly, and I feel the ache of exhaustion settling in my bones. I don't even know if cats can sweat, but if they can, I'm absolutely drenched right now.

Time blurs into nothing as I continue, claw stretched out and trembling as I channel whatever healing energy I can muster. The pain from the plant has become so constant, so normal, that it barely registers anymore.

Eventually, I collapse under the endless pink sky, body giving out before my will does. The world slips into a haze, and the last thing I think before darkness takes me is that Layza owes me more than just a meal for this.

When I wake, I'm still sprawled in the exact same spot. The pink sky hasn't changed—still frozen in its eternal glow—and there's no blanket or anything resembling care draped over me. My limbs ache, my fur is a mess, and my mind drifts, unbidden, to Walker.

Walker would've never left me like this. He wouldn't have let me sleep in the dirt with nothing but the cold for company. He'd have carried me to a soft place, maybe even tucked me in, no questions asked.

The ache in my chest deepens, and for a moment, I hate myself for comparing them. Walker was kind in ways Layza will never be. But then again, Walker's kindness didn't get him far, did it?

With a groan, I push myself upright, glaring at the plant like it's personally responsible for all my woes. "You better be worth it," I think to myself.

And just like that, I'm back to work.

My irritation with Layza festers, growing like a weed in my mind. But, honestly, it's nothing compared to the frustration I feel toward myself—or rather, the original Ferrari. What kind of ridiculous, barely-functional powers did she have for them to fail me like this? If I had full control, I'd snap my fingers and make everything better in a heartbeat. The world would be thriving under my brilliance. I'd be unstoppable.

I'd flip my hair at my greatness—if I had any hair to flip.

Two more days—at least, I think it's been two days—drag by in mind-numbing monotony. Without a clock or even a sense of reality in this godforsaken pink-hued world, it's impossible to tell. I spend my time rooted to the same spot next to the ridiculously stubborn plant. Eat, hydrate, and occasionally retreat to handle basic necessities. That's my life now.

The plant does nothing. No response. No progress. Not even a hint that I might be doing something right. I'm starting to believe it's mocking me, and honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if it sprouted lips just to laugh at my misery.

The longer I sit here, the more I start to unravel. Reality and dreamland blur together until I can't tell if I'm hallucinating or asleep. At one point, Wilde's face appears, haunting me with his deep, familiar voice.

"I'll find you," he says, so sure of himself, as if he hasn't already failed.

I laugh bitterly at the both of us. What a pair of sad, pathetic fools.

At some point, exhaustion drags me into a semi-conscious haze. My head droops, eyes fluttering shut against my will. That's when something jolts me awake—a sudden shift in the air, heavy and almost electric.

I blink myself awake to find Layza standing over me, silent and unreadable as always. He's holding a plate of food in one hand, but instead of offering it, he drops it to the floor with a dull thud.

I gape at him, my exhausted brain struggling to process what just happened.

And then I see it.

Bright red blood drips from his nose, vivid against his unnaturally pale skin. His face is flushed, not with anger or irritation, but with something far more alarming. The feverish red creeps down his neck in uneven blotches, his breaths ragged and shallow.

Instinct takes over, and I push myself up, intending to rush to him. For all his sharp words and maddening smugness, he's been my strange, reluctant lifeline in this absurd situation. But instead of surging forward—

I crash.

My body stumbles into the tangle of vines around the plant, taking down two pots with me. The dull thud of ceramics shattering echoes in the room, dirt scattering in chaotic arcs. I try to pull myself up, but my movements feel off—clumsy and uncoordinated.

Then I see it.

Not paws.

Arms.

Human arms, trembling and glowing faintly in the soft pink light. My breath hitches as I lift my hands—my hands—into view. They're real, solid, but humming with energy that feels foreign and familiar all at once. My heart pounds as realization sets in:

I'm not human. Not technically.

I'm a spirit again.

A very, very naked spirit.

"Oh, fuck," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them, sharp and loud in the heavy silence.

Panic claws at me, and I scramble to cover myself. My hands, unhelpfully glowing, dart across my body in a frantic attempt to preserve what little dignity I have left. But then I realize something horrifying.

Layza.

He's still standing there.

Frozen.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, are fixed on me—or rather, on my chaotic, fumbling hands. And he's not looking away. His gaze lingers, tracking my movements with a mix of shock and something unreadable that sends heat crawling up my neck.

"Pervert!" I yelp, my voice breaking, half-horrified and half-hysterical. Despite the situation—or maybe because of it—a laugh bubbles out, sharp and breathless. Because of course this would happen.

Of course.

There he is, bloodied, flushed, and looking like a disheveled prince who just stumbled into the wrong part of the fairy tale. "Scram!"

For a moment, he doesn't move. His arms are still awkwardly mid-air, like he can't decide what to do with them. And then, with a sharp, almost theatrical turn, he spins on his heel.

His face—already crimson—deepens in color as he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "ungrateful." Without another word, he storms out of the room, his grand robes trailing behind him, splattered with food and dirt.

I collapse back into the mess of vines, dirt clinging to my glowing skin, and finally let the laughter take over. It spills out of me in waves, uncontrollable and unhinged, filling the pink-lit room. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.

And yet, as my laughter dies down, one singular, haunting thought rises above the chaos.

Now this seems like more of a fair game.

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A/N: peace out mfs.