blood was everywhere, hot and heavy in the air. jets screamed over the desert sky, cutting across the heat, while tanks crawled in the distance like monsters made of steel. the pyramids stood far off, silent and old, watching the war tear everything apart. people screamed, fell, crawled. the ground shook under their dying. he was there, standing or maybe sitting, he couldn’t tell anymore. everything smelled of smoke and dust and death, but none of it touched him. it was like watching through a window, like he wasn’t really part of it.
then something yanked him. it wasn’t hands, it wasn’t water. it was falling, fast, deep. he was dropping into a hole with no end. down, down, like being pulled through a drain. then — snap — it all changed.
he slammed into the world hard. the sun burned his skin, the sound tore his ears. he stood in the sand, boots sinking. everything hurt. he walked without thinking, and that’s when he saw her.
she wore a soldier’s uniform, dirty, bloody, torn in places. she didn’t fit here. she looked real, more real than anything else in this burning world. one of her eyes was empty, dead. the other was strange — shaped like a heart. she shouted something through the chaos, clear enough to reach him. "do we fall back or push forward, general?"
general? him? he looked down and sure enough, he wore the same kind of uniform. around them, blurry figures watched and waited. it was his call. he mattered.
he almost laughed, but it came out weak. "we obviously—" he started, but a sharp buzzing sound cut him off. a bright flash hit his head like a hammer, and everything went black.
he woke up to bright white lights stabbing his eyes. the air smelled like chemicals, like fake-clean. machines beeped around him, slow and tired. voices came and went. he couldn’t tell what they were saying, but he felt them. a woman — angry and sharp. a man — soft, trying to help but weak. another man — strong, cold like stone.
he looked around but couldn’t move right. the faces blurred into one another. it was too much. he let himself fall back into the dark.
the next time he opened his eyes, the clock said 3 a.m. the room was too bright. outside the window, the city was dark and sleepy. he stood up, slow and shaky, and turned off the light. it felt better in the dark.
he sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about the girl with the heart-shaped eye, the war, the heat, the falling. was it a dream? was it real? he didn’t know. memories tickled the edges of his mind — shouting, a slamming door — but nothing stuck.
something unseen watched him. he didn’t know how, he just felt it. the city lights bled onto the hospital walls, blurry and tired. he closed his eyes, opened them again, and it was morning.
a nurse stood by his bed, checking the machines. he lifted his head and said, "hey, ma’am. don’t you feed people here?" his voice was rough.
the nurse turned, smiling too big. "you’re awake. i’ll get you something, mr. kuya."
he blinked. "who’s mr. kuya?"
"you are," she said with a laugh like plastic.
fine. if that was his name, it was good enough.
soon she brought him a bowl of soup, steaming hot. he stared at it. "it’s soup," he said. "soup isn’t food."
she laughed too loud. "well, mr. kuya, you have to—"
"no, listen," he cut her off. "i’m starving. two pizzas, fries, a burger, fried chicken, and a diet soda. please."
she just smiled and said, "yeah, sure, but we can’t, mr. kuya," as she left.
he looked at the soup again. with the hunger biting at him, it didn’t seem so bad anymore. he drank it. it wasn’t great. it wasn’t terrible either.
a few slow, boring days later, he was standing at the hospital front desk. the man behind the counter handed him a bill so long it looked like a joke. "take care, mr. kuya," the man said.
he stepped outside. the fresh air smacked him in the face. the sun stabbed at his eyes. he blinked against the light and for a second, he felt awake. felt alive.
then the real world hit him again. no wallet. no phone. no family. nothing waiting for him. no plan. just himself and an empty world.
he stumbled toward a broken bus stop across the street and dropped onto a cracked plastic bench. his hospital slippers slapped against the ground, thin and useless.
a girl sat down next to him. he didn’t really see her at first — he felt her. like an old song you can’t remember the name of.
she was too clean, too bright to be sitting there. something about her didn’t fit.
she spoke first. "hey, mr. kuya," she said, all casual like she knew him.
his gut twisted. bad feeling. real bad.
"how do you know my name?" he asked, voice sharp.
she smiled, not creepy but not exactly safe either, and tapped his hospital card still pinned to his chest.
"it’s written right there, genius," she said.
he looked down and felt like an idiot. he had forgotten about the tag.
he shifted on the broken bench, feeling the heat from the cracked pavement rising through his thin hospital slippers. the girl beside him was quiet for a second, watching the street like she had all the time in the world.
then she said, "i can offer you a job."
he blinked at her. "why?"
she shrugged, still staring ahead. "you probably need it. it's not charity. just getting cheap labor." she said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. "it's a win-win, kinda."
he looked at her again, closer this time. there was something about her. not just the clean clothes or the way she sat too still. it was a feeling, like he had seen her before. not her face — the feeling. like the girl with the heart-shaped eye.
he didn’t get up. didn’t run. he just rolled with it. maybe he was too tired to fight anything anymore.
"so what’s the job?" he asked, trying to sound casual, but a little worried because of the way she smiled when she said it.
"you’ll wash dishes," she said, like she was handing down a life sentence.
for a second, he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. it was a job. it was real. it wasn’t guns, it wasn’t running, it wasn’t dying under the sun. it was washing plates. scrubbing leftovers off forks.
and somehow that made him happy.
and sad.
because part of him, the part that had touched that burning world with pyramids and war, wanted more. wanted a story. wanted to matter.
but real life wasn’t a story. it was dirty dishes and tired backs and cheap pay.
he sighed. "fine."
the bus groaned up to the stop, coughing black smoke. she stood and hopped on like she was born for it. before he could second guess, she reached out her hand.
"will you push forward?" she asked.
the words hit him hard.
the same words, the same voice, from the war in his head.
he didn’t think. he grabbed her hand and climbed aboard.
the bus ride was a blur. he didn’t remember the stops or the streets, just the way the bus rattled over every bump like it was trying to shake them loose. the girl didn’t talk much. she stared out the window, tapping her fingers against the seat like she was playing a song only she could hear.
they got off in a part of the city that smelled like smoke and food and tired people. she led him down a side street where an old restaurant squatted between a laundry shop and a place that sold broken phones. the sign above the door was faded, but he could still read it: "kebab."
he followed her in. the air inside hit him like a punch — hot, thick, heavy with the smell of roasting meat and spices. he could have cried from hunger right then and there.
the kitchen was loud. big men shouted at each other over sizzling grills. flames jumped up and kissed the bottom of the meat skewers, making the fat pop and crackle. plates stacked up by the sink, smeared with rice and sauce. long metal skewers, blackened and greasy, piled high like swords after a battle.
"your kingdom," the girl said, waving toward the sink like she was blessing him with a gift.
he just nodded. what else could he do?
he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. hot water, cold water, soap, rinse, repeat. the skewers were the worst. sticky, oily, heavy. the plates weren’t much better. rice clung to them like it had a grudge.
and the smell — god, the smell. meat and bread and spices and smoke. it filled the air, crawled under his skin, chewed at his stomach. he scrubbed and scrubbed and dreamed of biting into a fat, greasy kebab until his jaw hurt.
someone told him the girl owned the place. that she was rich. rich enough to not even care if the shop made money or not. she just liked having a place that smelled like fire.
someone told him she was cold, mean, the devil in sneakers. didn’t care about anyone. didn’t trust anyone.
who told him?
the cat.
the orange cat that lounged near the back door, tail flicking lazy circles in the greasy air.
it talked to him.
not with words, not really. more like feelings. like when you look at someone and you just know what they’re thinking. that’s how it was with the cat.
after about a week, kuya and the cat were almost best friends.
he didn’t know why or how.
he didn’t even know if the cat was real sometimes.
but when he scrubbed the plates, the cat sat nearby, watching him with bright green eyes, tail flicking like a slow metronome.
"she’s trouble," the cat seemed to say, stretching out and yawning like a king.
"rich trouble. cold trouble. you’re better off running."
kuya just kept scrubbing, smiling a little to himself.
he wasn’t running.
not yet.
days passed like slow waves rolling in, one after the other, never stopping, never crashing.
he got himself some clothes, finally. cheap stuff from the corner store, but he made it work. a black long-sleeve t-shirt, black jeans, simple but a little sharp, a little heavier than normal. semi-semi gothic, like he was about to be in a band no one would listen to but everyone would pretend to know.
he ate like a king. kebabs on the house, and not just any kebabs — perfect ones. greasy but the kind of greasy that made you hungrier, not sick. salty but balanced, like the salt knew when to back off. chewy but soft, like biting into a cloud that could fight back a little.
he loved them. he lived for them.
every monday, she would show up.
not for him. not for anyone. just for the food.
she would stomp in, hair a mess, eyes sharp, drop herself at a table, and order the biggest mountain of food you could imagine.
then she'd eat like she hadn't seen a meal in a year. fork moving like a machine, meat vanishing, rice disappearing.
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and when she was done, she always dropped a fat, fat tip — like throwing coins into a wishing well — and walked out without looking back.
but this monday, she stayed a little longer.
this monday, she looked at him.
"you have so much potential," she said, grinning with a weird kind of sparkle in her eye. "i mean the way you wash dishes, that’s great. the way you stand, i mean, come on. the way you talk, act, breathe."
he stared at her.
was she serious?
was she in love?
come on. he wasn’t that stupid.
and neither was she.
it wasn’t love.
it was something else.
what, he didn’t know.
but he wanted to believe it. he wanted to be fooled.
because deep down, he needed there to be something more to life than soap and steel and soap again.
and there were signs.
small ones.
the skewers — they were... different.
longer.
heavier.
when he first started, they were normal kebab sticks, the kind you wave around like a magic wand.
now they were almost swords.
heavier than they should be.
and no one said a word about it.
the cat — the orange cat — it was changing too.
less lazy, more awake.
less vague, more clear.
now when it looked at him, it wasn’t just feelings. it was almost words.
"watch your back," it said one night, clear as day, clear as blood.
he laughed at first.
but then he heard it again.
and again.
and it wasn’t just the cat.
the whole restaurant felt... wrong.
the walls seemed closer sometimes.
the lights flickered in ways that made your stomach drop.
the smell of meat sometimes twisted, sour and burnt even when the fire was clean.
the customers were worse.
they stared too long.
they smiled too wide.
their eyes didn’t match their faces, like masks slipping.
he didn’t know what was happening.
he didn’t know if he wanted to know.
but something was coming.
he could feel it.
it got weirder. and weirder. and weirder.
the days blurred, the nights bled.
he slept in a group house not far from the shop. cheap rent, one of those old houses chopped into rooms. three other guys lived there too, but it didn’t feel like it. they were supposed to be college students, freshly graduated, but he never saw them. not once.
sometimes he heard doors slam, toilets flush, but it was like living with ghosts.
most nights he had the whole place to himself.
which wasn’t as cool as it sounded.
2:56 am. he remembered the clock exactly.
he was half-asleep, half-awake, floating in that awful space where dreams bleed into real life.
then he heard it.
a soft creak.
the sound of a door moving — his door.
wide open, shifting in the dark, like someone breathing against it.
then the floor.
it cracked.
something was walking. something big.
big enough that the whole house felt it.
he couldn’t move.
he couldn’t even breathe.
the tension built.
up.
up.
up.
and just when it felt like the world would rip open—
something jumped right onto his chest.
he almost died right there.
a thousand strokes, one after another, heartbeat ripping through him.
it was the cat.
the orange cat.
the cat laid on him, heavy and calm, staring him dead in the eyes like it owned his soul.
and then — full-on human voice — it spoke.
"hey man, why don’t you leave?"
kuya blinked.
not scared.
just tired.
and honestly, relieved.
he wasn’t crazy. the cat was real.
the madness was real.
good enough.
"what’s out there for me, mr. cat?" he mumbled, voice thick with sadness.
"oh, sorry," the cat said, like it had forgotten basic manners.
"my name’s felix."
it flicked its tail like a king dismissing a servant.
"i’m here as a guard to the shop," felix said.
plain. simple. heavy.
"look, the thing is," felix went on, stretching, yawning, "you’re out of place.
and she— ugh— she likes you."
he said it like a bad taste in his mouth.
kuya let the words fall over him.
this whole thing was past weird now.
what was he supposed to do, cry? scream? jump out a window?
he sighed, deep and broken.
"well, this is all confusing," he said.
"but at this point... might as well go full crazy. what is it, schizophrenia?"
he laughed a dead laugh.
the kind that doesn’t move your face.
deep down, he wasn’t sure if he was joking.
deep down, he felt it.
that dark heavy thought you’re not supposed to think.
that thing that creeps into your chest when nothing else makes sense.
he almost felt like he could just stop being.
right there.
and no one would even know he was missing.
kuya launched the cat across the room.
"meowaaa," felix screamed, tumbling into the dark.
"i have work tomorrow," kuya said, rolling over and pulling the blanket to his chin like none of it ever happened.
he slept like a dead man.
tomorrow morning hit him hard.
monday.
again.
how?
he didn’t even know anymore.
days passed but now — it felt like every day was monday.
same air. same smell. same faces.
and her.
he saw her every single day now.
like she lived there.
like she owned the air.
she wasn’t supposed to.
monday checkups — that was her thing.
now?
she just sat there. walked around. existed.
never leaving.
he didn’t know how to react.
smile? run? throw a chair?
this morning she came up to him with a cup.
coffee.
he hated coffee.
hated it with a passion that burned.
but hey — couldn’t turn her down, right?
he took it.
pretended it was fine.
"you’ve been working hard," she said, soft, almost whispering.
"you have to rest, general."
he froze.
general?
that wasn’t right.
that wasn’t real.
that was from the dream.
the desert. the war. the heart-shaped eye.
he stared at her, dead serious.
"who is general?" he asked, straight to the point.
she smiled — fake, sweet — and shook her head.
"i didn’t say such a thing," she said, brushing it off like dust on her sleeve.
he didn’t push it.
couldn’t.
wouldn’t.
the shop changed after that.
the kebabs — too greasy.
the smoke — choking.
the smell — made his stomach turn.
the whole place felt wrong.
off.
the clocks?
broken.
stuck.
every minute the batteries died.
he replaced them once, twice, three times — didn’t matter.
time was dying here.
the customers?
weirder than ever.
some came in, sat down, stared at the wall, and left without eating.
some ordered piles of food, barely touched it, and walked out smiling like they just won a war.
he didn’t care.
at least, that’s what he told himself.
inside he was shaking.
but he knew — deep down — if he reacted now, if he acknowledged it...
it would get worse.
so he kept his face cold.
his hands steady.
his mind blank.
"i've seen nothing.
i've heard nothing."
he repeated it in his head like a prayer.
denial.
big, fat, stupid denial.
and felix?
gone.
like he never existed.
not a single fur hair left behind.
only her.
only her now.
and she wasn’t leaving.
ever.
24/7, breathing the same air as him, filling the shop, filling his life.
only a month had passed since he first came here.
a month.
but it felt like years.
decades.
lifetimes.
he wasn’t sure he even remembered who he was anymore.
and he, he, he...
he loved it.
kinda.
there was a sense of home in it all.
not a good home, not a perfect one — but something.
something that almost filled the cracks.
he was loved.
kinda.
he had good food.
kinda.
he had a job, a house, a roof, a—a—a—
he screamed.
louder than anything, louder than everything,
at 3 a.m.
again.
dark room.
alone.
except felix.
sitting right on his chest like a furry paperweight.
"hey," felix said, voice tired, heavy, like he hadn’t slept in years.
kuya stared at him, heart pounding out of rhythm.
felix sighed.
"you gotta do something. she’s getting stronger. and you... well, you're losing it. bad.
look, i like you. kinda.
so i might help you. kinda."
he was scared.
scared to the very core.
the real fear.
the you-know-it’s-over kind.
he spoke, real words, desperate words:
"help me. help me, felix. i’m scared. i’m in danger. i’m—"
"shhhhh," felix cut him off, soft but sharp.
"it’ll be alright.
just throw a tantrum tomorrow.
make a scene.
i’ll handle the rest."
relief?
no.
not even close.
but it was a plan.
a stupid, crazy, last-hope plan.
he nodded weakly, swallowing down the panic.
felix curled up on his chest like nothing was wrong.
like this was just another tuesday.
and kuya...
he let himself drift, heavy, sinking.
his last thought before sleep hit —
felix was warm.
felix was real.
and for the first time in a long time,
he felt almost...
safe.
tomorrow morning came.
the bed was candy.
no, literally — grains of sugar, soft and rough like sand, covering everything.
and claw marks — deep, ugly, stretched across the walls.
not little scratchy cat marks.
no.
these were huge.
and felix? curled up like nothing happened, purring.
he didn’t even question it.
he had work to do.
early morning prep for lunch, like always.
chopping. setting tables. fixing chairs. breathing in that greasy smoke.
and he had enough.
he saw her.
coming in with that stupid cup of coffee.
same fake smile. same weird glint in her eye.
this was it.
she handed him the cup, all casual.
he grabbed it, stared her dead in the eyes, heart beating like a war drum.
"I hate coffee, mrs... mrs... mrs... what is your name, anyway?"
he had never asked.
not once.
not till now.
she smiled wider, like she had been waiting for this.
"well, i don't like it either.
my name is tiam.
and you are the general, remember?"
general.
again.
always general.
always that dream.
his hands shook.
that was enough.
way more than enough.
he threw the cup.
full force.
it smashed into the glass front of the shop.
a shattering scream of broken light.
tables flipped.
fire burst from somewhere.
grease caught.
chairs flew.
customers screamed and ducked, moving in slow motion, like swimming through honey.
he moved too — fast, sharp, a storm inside the chaos.
he was mad.
not sad.
not scared.
not confused.
mad.
mad enough to tear the whole world down.
he wanted freedom.
he would take it.
and right when everything started folding in on itself —
when the colors bled into each other —
when the floor cracked like ice —
he heard it.
a voice.
not hers.
not felix’s.
a voice realer than anything.
"wake up, a—"
it was a name.
his name.
his real name.
but he couldn’t catch it.
couldn’t hold onto it.
wake up.
wake up from what?
where was he sleeping?
and then —
the world shattered.
glass exploding, heat rushing out, gravity pulling in.
BOOM.
black.
then —
bright, cold.
he gasped awake.
lying in a bed.
alone.
an empty room.
gray walls.
no windows.
no door.
just him.
breathing heavy.
heart clawing at his ribs.
it was dead silent.
dead still.
dead.
except for the feeling in the air.
he was awake, finally.
