Freddie's eyes remained closed, his body still as if the chaos from before hadn't yet loosened its grip.
Slowly, he stirred.
Bright light pressed against his face, forcing a quiet wince as his vision gradually cleared. The first thing he saw was the ceiling—flat, tiled, sterile. The kind you'd find in an office building.
Or a hospital.
A soft bed supported him. Turning his head slightly, the room came into focus: medical equipment nearby, monitors idle, the faint hum of machines filling the silence.
Ah. He understood. He was in a hospital.
Shifting again, he noticed how numb his body felt—not aching, just distant, like he'd been asleep far longer than intended. He lifted his hands into view.
They weren't mechanical. No plating. No joints of steel. No hum beneath the surface.
He was himself again.
Yellow fur, soft and familiar. Bear ears perched where they always were. A slim, lean frame—unchanged. Even his height felt right. Five-foot-seven. Normal. At least… on the outside.
Freddie wondered what had happened when he passed out. He couldn't remember exactly where, but it hadn't been on a road, hopefully.
He hesitated, letting his thoughts drift over the events that had shaken him to his core:
The liminal space, and Treddie's revelation.
The mechanical form he had taken, the alien hum under his fur.
The Umbrins, and the way the night glitched around him.
How he had survived, and why.
The sudden pull back into normalcy.
He lingered on each thought, unwilling—or unable—to confront them fully.
A sudden movement caught his eye. A nurse walked past the door—a female bird anthro, probably in her mid-twenties. Her eyes widened as she noticed him awake. She jolted, then stepped inside, pausing just to his left.
Her calm voice carried a hint of surprise.
"Ah… you're awake. We were starting to get worried."
Freddie blinked, still half-lost in the haze. "I… what happened?"
She shifted slightly, feathers ruffling as she moved closer. "You were found unconscious. Someone walking by called for help. Emergency services brought you here right away. You've been resting ever since."
Freddie's mind pieced together fragments—stumbling, darkness, a pull through space he couldn't explain. And then… nothing, until this bright, sterile room.
"You're safe now," she added gently, eyes lingering with concern. "Just try not to move too fast. You've been through a lot."
Freddie nodded slowly, hands resting on the blanket. Somewhere deep inside, a quiet unease lingered—the world felt just a little… off.
He hesitated, then asked quietly, "How long… have I been out?"
The nurse glanced at the monitors. "About two weeks. Almost three."
Freddie froze. The weight of that time hit him. He felt weak, drained, but not helpless. Slowly, almost painfully, he shifted his hands and legs, testing his strength.
Noticing his lingering tension, the nurse stepped closer, tone softening. "I know it's a lot to take in. Just… rest for now. You're safe."
Freddie appreciated that. Her calm presence was grounding, almost comforting. He nodded, letting himself breathe a little easier.
After a quiet moment, she turned toward the door. "We'll check in soon. If everything's okay, we can let you go."
Her words lingered in the room like a promise—and a reminder. Outside, the world waited, strange and uncertain. But for now, he could simply rest.
After a long, quiet moment, the nurse returned, followed shortly by the doctor.
He was a mature badger, fur streaked with gray around the muzzle. Sharp, calculating eyes scanned Freddie like a puzzle to solve. Dressed in a crisp coat over a simple shirt, he carried the presence of someone used to reading people before they spoke.
"Here he is," the nurse murmured, stepping back. "Still awake, doctor."
The badger gave a small nod, gaze sweeping over Freddie, lingering briefly on the monitors. "Good. That's… reassuring." His voice carried weight, each word deliberate.
Freddie shifted slightly, still unsure how to process everything—the mechanical form, the Umbrins, Treddie—then back to this room, this body. Fragile, yet alive.
The doctor leaned closer, folding his hands. "You've been unconscious for quite a while. Your vitals are stable, but we'll need to discuss how this happened. You were found in… a precarious state."
Freddie swallowed. "I… I don't remember…"
"Memory can be tricky after something like this," the doctor noted. "We'll piece it together."
The nurse offered a small, encouraging smile. "Try not to worry too much. You're safe here. We'll make sure you're looked after."
Freddie nodded, letting their presence anchor him. Beneath the calm, a quiet unease lingered. Treddie's words—"Because you didn't look away"—echoed in his mind.
The doctor's gaze sharpened, listing usual culprits. "No alcohol. No drugs. No toxins. Nothing explaining the loss of consciousness." A pause let the weight of the statement sink in. "It's… unusual."
Freddie shifted under the blanket, unsure.
"What happened?" the doctor pressed, tone calm but probing.
The truth—the liminal space, Treddie, the mechanical form, the Umbrins—felt impossible to explain. They wouldn't believe him. Silence filled the room.
"Just… I don't know," he finally offered, voice casual. "I passed out. Maybe from exhaustion?"
The doctor raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but not accusatory. "Exhaustion can explain some things, but not all."
Freddie nodded quickly, not wanting to dig further. It wasn't lying outright—he did feel exhausted—but far from the full truth.
The nurse leaned closer, gentle. "Don't worry too much right now. Focus on resting, okay?"
Freddie nodded again, letting the half-truth settle. Inside, quiet unease lingered. He knew what had really happened, and that no one here could understand.
The nurse began routine checks, moving around him efficiently: pulse, blood pressure, oxygen levels—each measured with careful precision. It took longer than expected, but not uncomfortably.
When she stepped back, the doctor moved closer, gesturing for Freddie to sit up slightly. Hands-on examination began.
His touch was firm but careful, tracing shoulders, arms, torso. Muscle tone, reflexes, posture, subtle joint movements—each action deliberate, attentive. Freddie could feel the scrutiny, grounding in its own way, reminding him this body—yellow-furred, normal—was real.
The doctor's brow furrowed slightly. "Everything seems… physically intact. No abnormalities. No signs of injury from the fall or incident. Your body is… stable."
Freddie exhaled slowly. Physically fine. Safe. Grounded.
Yet deep down, a flicker reminded him otherwise. Something had changed, invisible but lingering beneath the surface.
After a nod from the doctor, Freddie was free to go.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stretched slightly before standing. Clothes were handed to him; he dressed quickly, feeling the familiar comfort of fabric against fur.
Next, he made his way to the hospital center to handle the bill.
Sheesh. Expensive.
Thankfully, he had enough to pay directly via his phone, avoiding the hassle of insurance. One less thing to worry about.
He received a doctor's note for college and work, confirming his absence. Slipping it into his bag, he stepped outside.
The city sprawled before him—normal in every sense. People walking, cars moving, signs flickering—but Freddie couldn't shake the lingering thought: the night hadn't been normal. He set it aside, focusing on the present.
He boarded the train home, the rhythmic motion soothing some residual tension from the hospital.
Once in his apartment, he checked his college schedule and made a note to call work. No classes today. Empty—but time to regroup, even if just a little.
Friends. He hadn't seen them in forever—since he'd been in the hospital. Probably worried, or worse… maybe forgotten.
He didn't have their contacts handy, which was sad, but he could only wait until tomorrow. Unless… he could go to the diner. Kasey usually stopped by.
Freddie shook his head, pushing the thought aside. Instead, he felt the pull to check himself—see what had changed. Bathroom mirror awaited.
The reflection was… different.
His face looked tired, weary—fatigue running deeper than sleep could fix. Jaw slightly furrier, a faint beard forming along edges. Goatee and mustache visible, trimmed intentionally.
He didn't mind. In fact, it suited him. Growth. Acceptance.
"Accepting myself…?" he murmured. Words strange on his tongue.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He remembered when his body "didn't accept" the mechanical form, wanting to reject it. But Treddie had forced him.
What if he fully accepted himself now? Could it be different this time?
He stared at his reflection, uncertainty mingling with curiosity. Answers weren't here—but he would find them.
A conclusion came: a mission awaited. Whatever that meant, he couldn't ignore it.
He dressed in casual clothes, grounding and familiar, then headed out to the diner.
The city hummed around him. People moved in routines, scents from street vendors drifting, trains rumbling overhead. Freddie kept his gaze steady, alert, allowing small moments to breathe.
Arriving at the diner, he pushed the door open, scanning for Kasey. Attention caught someone else.
Riven.
Oh boy. Definitely unexpected. Maybe he could talk to him anyway.
Riven sat at a booth, sipping a drink. Then, with the air of a drunken dad finishing his last beer, slammed it onto the table. Eyes flicked toward Freddie.
Freddie hesitated. "Can I—"
"What do you want, bub?"
Tone stern but not hostile. Eyes swept him up and down, sizing him. Something different… yet hard to place.
"I wanted to… talk," Freddie tried, voice steady.
Riven paused, processing. Didn't like chatter. Didn't like company. But Freddie… he wasn't annoying. With a resigned huff, he gave in.
"Hmph. Fine."
Freddie slid into the booth.
Riven leaned back, elbows on the table. "What happened to you? One of your annoying friends—Casey—kept bugging me about where you've been."
Freddie weighed his words. Truth impossible to tell. Lies too blatant.
"It's a long story," he offered. "More complicated than a few words. Let's just say… I needed time."
Riven snorted, shaking his head. "You've got a way of disappearing, huh? Typical."
Freddie forced a small smile. "Yeah… I guess."
Riven leaned forward slightly, chin on hand. "Alright, bub. Since you're here, spill it. What's really going on? You look… different. Not sure if it's the hospital or what."
Freddie hesitated. Deep breath. Half-truth, diversion, or silence? He chose vague honesty.
"How do you know I was at the hospital?"
Riven's gaze lingered, sharp and assessing. "You just… look like it. Tired, stiff. Not just from walking around."
Freddie blinked, caught off guard. "Huh… I guess that makes sense."
Riven smirked faintly. "I'm good at observing; I can hint the obvious most of the time."
Freddie let out a small laugh. "Impressive."
Riven scoffed, leaning back. "Heh, don't butter me up, bub."
Freddie shook his head. "Not trying. Just… respectful."
Riven muttered, almost to himself, "Respect, huh?" Testing the air, weighing it.
Freddie tilted his head, sensing subtle shift, unsure how to respond. The diner moved around them, yet quiet tension stretched in the booth.
Riven gave a short, begrudging nod. "Alright. Fair enough. Just… don't get used to me being nice."
Freddie smiled faintly, tension easing. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Time passed. Riven offered a drink. Freddie accepted. Quiet moments followed, sipping, rare calm settling.
Riven's expression remained stoic, but Freddie sensed faint warmth beneath the usual edge.
Freddie's gaze wandered, drawn to Riven's form—forearms, chest—something rugged, raw, like wolverine strength. He couldn't look away.
Riven's style made it striking: simple tank top, sweatpants, casual yet highlighting muscular contours.
He didn't notice Freddie staring—not directly—but subtle awareness prickled beneath calm. He wanted to snap at him, pull back into line. He let it pass. For now.
"I wanna go somewhere. I'm already fuckin' bored."
First time Freddie heard a swear from anyone here. Not that it was new elsewhere—but not in this city, not from Riven.
"Yeah, we can… where to—"
"A park," Riven cut him off, sliding from the booth.
He paid at the counter without a glance back. Freddie hustled to catch up, adjusting to his pace.
About halfway there, Riven's voice stopped him mid-step.
"I already paid—for you too. Don't worry about it."
Freddie nodded, keeping quiet, and followed. The city hummed around them. The unusual ease between them settled into a quiet rhythm.
Ten minutes later, the park. The usual city chatter faded behind them, replaced by the soft crunch of gravel underfoot and the gentle rustle of trees.
Riven paused near a secluded bench, scanning the area. Satisfied, he turned sharply to Freddie.
"You know something, do you?"
Freddie froze. Mind racing. What could he possibly mean? How much had Riven noticed?
"I… I don't know what you mean,"
Riven's eyes narrowed, predator-like, measuring the hesitation. "Don't lie to me, bub. You're not just here for coffee or a stroll, are you?"
Freddie hesitated, weighing words. Riven had seen past the surface—glimpsed something deeper—but how much?
"I… I've just been… figuring stuff out," he said finally, vague enough to be true.
Riven smirked faintly, almost approving, gaze unwavering. "Figuring stuff out, huh? I don't believe ya."
Silence settled. Park empty, city distant. Freddie knew this was only the beginning; Riven's questions wouldn't stop.
"Be honest," Riven said, low and even, weight behind each word. "I usually don't like force, but…"
He cracked his knuckles deliberately. Sharp sound against the quiet park.
"I'd tear your ass up if you don't tell me. Your eyes… I can sense everything."
Freddie's shoulders tensed instinctively. Not here. Not now. Not with someone this size, someone who clearly knew how to handle himself.
"You wouldn't understand… even if I told you—"
Before he could finish, Riven's hand shot out, aiming for his neck. Instinct took over. Freddie dodged fluidly, sliding just out of reach.
Riven blinked, momentarily taken aback. No one reacted that quickly before. No one had even come close.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Maybe… this is a good test. To find Him, he thought.
Tension hung heavy, electric. Freddie's heart raced, but so did a strange pulse of curiosity. This wasn't just a threat. It was a challenge.
Riven straightened, eyes never leaving him, smirk thin and knowing.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "That confirms it."
Freddie's breath hitched. He hadn't even thought about moving—his body had reacted too fast, too clean. Step back, hands half-raised. Not aggressive. Not surrendering.
"I don't want trouble," Freddie said, steady but strained. "Whatever you think you saw—"
"I saw instinct," Riven cut in. "Not panic. Not luck." Step forward, boots crunching gravel. "You moved like you've done that before."
Freddie swallowed. Heart pounding—not just fear, something deeper, familiar stirring. Quiet hum beneath his skin. A readiness he hadn't asked for.
"That wasn't me," he said. "At least… not like that."
Riven's eyes sharpened, peeling layers away. "Funny. Most people say that when lying. You sound truthful."
Wind stirred. Park felt exposed. Just the two of them—and whatever had just been revealed.
Riven cracked his neck slowly. "Relax. If I wanted you on the ground, you'd already be there."
That didn't help.
"But," he continued, lowering hands, "you're not normal. Confirms it. I don't threaten people unless I'm sure." Pause. "You're carrying something."
Freddie's ears flattened. "I don't even know what it is."
Riven studied him, exhaled through his nose. "Figures." Turned slightly, gazing over the empty park. "Guess that means you're earlier in this than I thought."
"…In what?" Freddie asked.
Riven glanced back, unreadable. "That's the part you don't get yet."
Silence. Different now. Less hostile. More dangerous.
"You didn't look away, did you?"
Freddie felt his stomach drop. Treddie's words echoed.
Riven wasn't guessing.
"Wait… what?"
Breath caught in his throat. He'd heard that phrase before. Sharp, unmistakable, dragging something deep inside.
Because you didn't look away.
Eyes flicked to Riven, searching for explanation. "How do you know that?"
Riven didn't answer immediately. He watched, eyes narrowing fractionally, confirming a suspicion.
"…So it did get to you," he said at last.
Chest tightened. "Get to me how?"
Riven scanned the park again, habit. "Most people don't notice it. It calls when you… eh, complicated. But when the night goes wrong. Things don't line up as they should." Pause. "The ones who do?"
Faint hum beneath Freddie's skin again.
"They look away," Riven continued. "Or break. You didn't."
Freddie shook his head, grounding himself. "I didn't know what I was looking at. I just—"
"—kept staring," Riven finished. "Yeah. That's how it starts; you don't expect it until you realize."
Chill ran through him. Not just Treddie. Not just the liminal space. Someone else had seen the cracks too.
"So what does that mean?"
Riven's expression hardened, serious. "It means you're involved. Whether you like it or not."
Adds, "…You have potential."
Wind stirred leaves along the path. Park felt smaller, tighter, like the day leaned in to listen.
Riven hesitated, muscles coiled for a fraction, then voice lowered, deliberate, careful.
"Do you know… the Parished Nobles?"
Freddie froze. Name unfamiliar, weight of it immediate, heavy.
Riven's gaze fixed, unblinking, piercing. "Are you part of them?"
Freddie blinked, genuinely disoriented. "The… what? What even is that?"
Riven's scrutiny didn't falter. His presence pressed, patient but unrelenting. No flicker of doubt, just the sharp measurement of observation.
"Hmph," Riven exhaled, tension releasing slightly from his shoulders. "That answers my question."
Freddie frowned. "You gonna tell me what that was about, or—"
"Not yet," Riven interrupted, voice clipped but calm, eyes never leaving him. Jaw tight, posture coiled like a spring. "Just know… if you were one of them, this conversation would have ended very… differently."
Freddie swallowed, unease blooming. "So I'm not. That's good… right?"
A short nod, laced with sarcasm. "Yeah. Good."
Riven's eyes tracked him again, analytical, weighing variables like a mathematician scanning a complex equation. "Means whatever's happening to you? Not because of them."
Freddie's ears twitched. "Then why is it happening?"
Silence stretched, thick, expectant. Riven's hands flexed against his knees, jaw tightening, eyes scanning beyond the park, beyond the immediate world, as though pulling invisible threads. Then:
"Because the night noticed you."
The phrase lingered, sharp, jagged against the soft rustle of leaves.
"And once it does," Riven added, low and deliberate, "it doesn't just… let go."
Freddie shivered. The air around them felt heavier, charged. Subtle vibrations like distant thunder, barely felt but undeniable.
Riven's shoulders eased fractionally. The weaponized tension softened into something… cautious, measured. Voice still rough, gravelly, scraping edges of thought.
"I know you want answers. You can ask. Just—be precise. Be relevant."
Freddie exhaled slowly, choosing words as if each weighed gold. "An Awaken… you have one, right?"
Riven froze. Just a fraction, eyes narrowing—not anger, but surprise tempered with recognition.
"…Yeah." His breath was slow, calculated. Then: "Wait. How the hell do you even know that word?"
Freddie didn't falter, pressing, careful not to provoke. "Is it… a form of you? And—how did you get one?"
Riven's exhale was deliberate, nasal, carrying years of memory and grit. Jaw clenched, eyes drifting to distant trees as if tracing a path through invisible storms.
"Yeah," he admitted. "It's me. And not me. Same soul, different edge." Fingers flexed unconsciously, claws catching the dying light. "It didn't show up because I asked for it."
Glance returned. Voice low, urgent, dangerous. "It showed up because I didn't look away."
Freddie's ears perked instinctively. That phrase again, a thread pulling at the edges of his memory.
Riven leaned slightly forward, voice sharper now, edges like iron scraping glass. "I was younger. Angrier. Thought the world owed me something. One night, the dark pushed back—and I pushed harder. I refused to accept myself." A humorless smirk tugged at his mouth. "Guess it liked that."
"So it just… happens?" Freddie ventured, voice small in the charged quiet.
"No." Riven's stare was relentless, sharpening. "It answers something already inside you. Fear. Rage. Want. Protection. Yours… feels like survival."
The words landed heavier than he expected. Heart tightening, chest constricting, pulse thrumming against ribs like a caged bird.
Riven straightened, arms crossing, fingers flexing. "Awakens aren't gifts. They're contracts you didn't realize you signed." Pause. "And once you have one… the night watches you differently."
Freddie hesitated, the gravity of it pressing down. "Can you get rid of it?"
"No." Riven's reply was blunt, absolute. A beat. Then: "But you can decide who's in control."
Eyes scanned him again, no sizing up now—measuring the presence, the instinct, the pulse beneath skin.
"Judging by that dodge back there," Riven murmured, voice low, almost contemplative, "yours already knows how to move."
Freddie's chest tightened. Awareness prickling. Not fear. Not exactly. But something deeper, ancient, responding.
"Is yours… like a shadow?"
Riven snorted, faint, dismissive, yet tone carried weight. "Shadow? Nah. Not dark. More… red."
"Red?" Freddie echoed, unease threading through curiosity.
"Yeah." Eyes unfocused, distant, staring past trees. "Not blood-red. Deeper. Like embers under ash. Something that's burned before and decided to burn again."
Freddie swallowed, pulse stuttered. "What does it do?"
Riven's gaze returned, unflinching. "What I do. Just louder. Meaner. Doesn't hesitate. Doesn't whisper. It pushes."
"That sounds… dangerous."
A dry laugh, humorless. "It is. That's the point. Honest. Shows who you are, what you want. Nothing hidden."
Freddie thought of Treddie. Of presence lingering, amused, measuring. "Does it talk to you?"
"…Sometimes," Riven admitted, tone flat, cautious.
Silence, stretched, weighty.
"It ever try to take over?"
Eyes narrowed, sharp. "Only when I let myself crack." Shoulders rolled, shaking off memory. "That's why control matters. You don't fight it. You acknowledge it. Set boundaries."
Freddie frowned. "Boundaries… with something part of you?"
"Especially with something part of you," Riven replied.
Words lingered, dense, pressing.
Riven tilted his head, assessing, considering. "I haven't seen yours, but I know—it's a shadow, curious. From your persona." A smirk, fleeting. "And that's why I don't think you're… Him." Pause. "But you're close to whatever's stirring."
Freddie stiffened. "Who's Him?"
No answer. Only wind brushing through branches, carrying distant city noise.
"…Best not ask," Riven finally said.
Freddie nodded, small, quiet, understanding the weight behind restraint.
Riven exhaled through his nose, tension easing fractionally. "Smart choice." Eyes flicked back, measuring, calibrating. "Some names don't give answers. They give attention."
Freddie stiffened. "…Like the Umbrin."
Eyes snapped. Alert. "You really don't know how much you're saying, do you?"
Freddie's ears flattened. "…I—sorry. That's just what they were called."
"Called by who?"
Memory of Treddie's grin flickered. "…Someone. Not important."
Riven's gaze held him longer. Then he shook his head slowly. "Walking close to a fire you don't understand."
Freddie stayed silent. Not a word. Not a single breath to feed the warning.
Riven straightened, rolling his neck. "Listen. I won't pry. You won't say names that don't need saying. Fair?"
"Fair."
Silence fell. Steadier now. Less threatening, more… measured.
Riven gestured with his head toward the path leading out of the park. "Come on. It's getting late."
Freddie followed, glancing at the sky. The night hadn't fallen yet—but it was edging closer.