He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Morning arrived softly.
Thin light slipped through the curtains and settled across the room, touching the edge of the bed where Rei lay still. His breathing was uneven. A faint sheen of sweat covered his skin.
Koma came in to wake him.
She stopped when she saw his face.
His hair was damp, clinging to his forehead. His brows were drawn together, his chest rising too quickly — as if he were running in a place no one else could see.
"Rei?" she called.
He didn't respond.
She shook his shoulder gently.
Nothing.
A flicker of worry crossed her face. She hesitated for only a moment before picking up a glass of water from the table and splashing it lightly over his face.
Rei gasped and jolted awake.
Before he could speak, Koma suddenly leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.
"What happened, Rei?" she asked, her voice tight with concern. "Why are you sweating?"
He swallowed, his words tumbling out unevenly.
"I–I don't know. I–I saw some guy running fast, jumping high, doing many supernatural things — like not being burned from fire and… and more, but I forgot. It seemed too real. And that guy was hitting me."
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes and placed her hands on his shoulders.
"Rei, calm down now," she said softly. "It was fake. I am with you. Nothing happened."
He let out a slow breath.
"Ah… yes. My bad. It was just a dream," he said. "Anyways… how did you and mom sleep?"
"It was good," Koma replied. "And your mom is out right now. She is on a walk. We both are alone."
Her voice carried a teasing lilt.
Rei shifted slightly, unease flickering across his face.
"What do you mean by saying we are alone?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "I was just telling that we are alone."
"Oh… okay," Rei muttered. "What's in the food, or do we need to make it yet?"
Then he paused.
"Wait. Did you say mom is out? But the government clearly said they should not go out. So why is she out?"
Koma waved her hand lightly.
"Don't worry, Rei. Our apartment is safe. She is in the garden, so there is no problem. We have good security."
Rei nodded, finally relaxing.
They both went to freshen up.
Soon, the quiet apartment filled with the soft sounds of cooking. When the food was ready, Rei's mother returned. The three of them sat together and ate.
After they were done, Rei's mother went back to her room to rest. She was ill and needed to rest most of the day. Koma went to continue the series she had been watching.
Rei went to his room.
They were all alone in their rooms.
Rei sat on his bed, an uneasy feeling still clinging to him. His eyes stayed on the screen — watching people turn into the altered, watching them refuse to give the briefcase to the scientist.
His fingers tightened.
Then he suddenly remembered.
There might be the address of her lab in that briefcase.
He reached for it and opened it.
There was nothing inside.
Nothing — except for a single folded paper that caught his eye at the last moment.
Rei almost missed it.
At first glance, it looked like a rough preparation note — the kind written in a hurry, meant only for the person who already knew what it meant.
No title.
No signature.
Just a list.
Stabilization Record – Batch Ω
Place the clear solution beneath three silent windows.
Do not let it face the narrow passage.
Allow it to rest where metal screams before it moves.
From the point where the bell no longer answers, carry the mixture fourteen counts toward the cold wind.
When the container passes through iron teeth, rotate it toward the dying light.
Leave it there — in a room that has forgotten its owner —
until the air stops trembling.
Do not label the container.
It will be recognized by silence.
If the silence accepts it,
the mixture is ready.
To Rei, it was only a strange storage instruction — a scientist's superstition, maybe.
But the "storage conditions" were not meant for medicine at all.
They were directions — folded neatly into a cure.
At first, Rei treats the page as nothing more than bad handwriting and superstition.
He follows it literally — trying to store a vial "beneath three silent windows", rotating containers, waiting in random rooms.
The cure did not change.
It sat inside its thin glass vial like a held breath that never left the lungs. Clear. Calm. Unmoved by time. It rested beneath the third window of the abandoned room exactly as the folded paper had instructed — angled away from the narrow corridor, its shadow thin and pale on the wooden shelf.
Morning after morning, Rei watched the light crawl across it.
Nothing.
No warmth.
No clouding.
No shift in weight.
The vial did not acknowledge him.
At first, he did not doubt the paper. He doubted himself.
He measured the angles again. He counted the windows twice, then a third time, just to be sure. He slid the table a few inches to the left. Then back to the right. He adjusted the curtain so the light would fall differently across the glass.
He waited.
The room stayed quiet.
The cure remained clear.