I woke heavier than I remembered falling asleep.
Not exhaustion—something else. As if the night had pressed a weight into my bones and refused to take it back. My thoughts dragged, sluggish, unwilling to rise.
"Hmm…" Victoria murmured, her arm flopping onto my face with zero remorse.
I exhaled—half laugh, half choke—and pried myself free. Pale sunlight, thin and blue, slipped through the window and struck my eyes at once. Innocent-looking light. Accusatory, all the same.
"We overslept," I said, sharper than intended, easing her arm away.
She cracked one eye open. "Your hair is a disaster."
I stared. "You're not exactly a standard. I told you to dry your hair properly."
She smiled. Unrepentant.
After that, we moved fast—helping each other dress, smoothing wrinkles, tying hair with hands still clumsy from sleep. No one said we were late, but the thought hovered between us, unwelcome and loud.
The shrine felt wrong that morning.
Too quiet—not peaceful, but restrained. Like the pause before someone delivers bad news gently.
Voices drew us not to the kitchen, not to warmth or routine, but to a rarely used side room. The door stood open.
Inside sat Miss Li Hua, Dōngzhí, several others—
—and a man I didn't know.
We stopped at the threshold.
"Good day, miss," the man said, tipping his hat.
The politeness only sharpened the tension. The air felt held, compressed. Miss Li Hua set her cup down with measured calm.
"You're finally awake," she said.
Neutral. Not unkind.
"This," she added, gesturing to the stranger, "is the doctor I sent to investigate what you reported yesterday."
I looked at him properly then.
Thin spectacles. Hands precise, economical. A man practiced in carrying bad news.
"We have finalized our findings," he said, adjusting his glasses. "There has been an outbreak."
Silence.
I felt it before I heard it—Victoria's breathing tightening, her pulse quickening where our shoulders brushed.
"It is not confined to the foreign workers' quarters," he continued evenly. "Multiple cases have appeared across the district."
The room dimmed—not in light, but in feeling. As if the sun outside had quietly withdrawn.
"Persistent coughing. High fever. Fatigue," he listed. "Those are the most consistent symptoms."
I swallowed.
"We do not yet have a full diagnosis," he admitted. "Nor do we understand the incubation period well enough to predict spread."
Miss Li Hua inclined her head once. Calm. Closed.
"We believe it is airborne," the doctor said. "The infected are being isolated. Quarantine has begun."
A weight settled in my chest—not fear.
Responsibility.
"You acted correctly," Miss Li Hua said at last, her gaze resting briefly on Victoria. "Both of you."
Victoria didn't answer. She hadn't spoken since the doctor began.
"It is likely bacterial," he added. "While we manage the patients, we will pursue treatment."
"The Church has offered assistance," Miss Li Hua said smoothly. "Coordinate with them—and the military."
Her expression remained serene. Steel lay beneath.
That was the morning.
From sleep to crisis in a single breath.
By the time we sat for what could generously be called second breakfast, my thoughts were fractured. The food tasted fine. Too fine, given everything.
Victoria ate in silence, eyes distant.
Through the high windows, the city lay below.
Quieter than yesterday.
Fewer voices. Thinner crowds. Movements careful—like a town balancing on a narrow rail, unsure which way it would fall.
I exhaled slowly.
The balance had shifted.
Everyone felt it.