Chapter Two

There were nights when Min dreamed so vividly that, for a fleeting moment upon waking, he forgot his sight was gone. Then, the moment would pass and he would feel grief, all over again, for the loss of something he had never even considered missing. 

He had never been one to dwell on the appearance of people, the shape of items, or even the passing clouds unless necessary—and it almost never was. He had been all action, very driven and ambitious, never slowing for a day in his haste to achieve his goals. Now, with the grief less acute and shadows of light and dark as his only companion, he was forced to slow down, to consider each step carefully before going through it lest he hurt himself—or at least, that was the idea. 

When he became blind, he was forced into a new, frightening existence where he could no longer rely on his sight (an important sense often taken for granted) to navigate an unfamiliar world of danger, death, and marks—especially with the skilful bounty hunter, Death, after him—and so, consequently, he unwittingly defaulted to old habits to stay sane. A decision he had come to regret in time. 

As with most mornings, he felt the gentle warmth of the sun on him, and his head rose from between his knees, unseeing eyes opening and automatically flitting in the general direction of the clouds (for lack of a better term) of light. With a yawn that turned into a face-distorting groan, he blinked in the glare and momentarily contemplated going back to sleep. However, said glare was a reminder that the temperature was too high, which would preclude any possibility of falling asleep, and he knew not to tempt fate any longer by remaining in the warehouse. 

So, relegating his injuries to the back of his mind for the meantime—though they needed to be cleaned and bandaged soon to prevent infections; Death seemed like the sort of edgelord to lick her weapons, so fuck knows what sort of bodily fluid they have touched—he let his hands rove over the object he rested against, checking if it was stable enough to serve as a support. It wasn't; it was taller than he could reach from his sitting position, and shaky too—which left him wondering what exactly it was as his mind was unable to come up with a sensible mental image. 

Shaking the thoughts of it being a toilet with a laugh, he withdrew his hands to grope the floor around him. Feeling no debris he could slip on—which was a given since he had made sure the area was clear before imbuing the floor with his mark, but it never hurt to double-check—he carefully stood and started walking, fingers reaching out lightly to brush against the rough walls while his legs helped to recognise the surface he worked on and keep him on track. A joint effort, made possibly by his instincts, familiarity, and a handful of luck.

Soon, he crossed the doorway, pausing briefly to check for sounds of any intruder, before continuing to the exit—cutting off his connection to the mark in the room and feeling it fade away from the world, bringing his total mental tally to zero—and his ears were greeted by the city's sounds, reporting their bustle: the honking of cars, the chatter of people, and the distant melody of a street musician's saxophone. 

Min's journey was slow and careful, his body often jostled by hurried shoulders and disembodied voices (causing him to trip on his feet at one point) but he hardly paid them mind, focused as he was on using his hands to touch memorised landmarks—fingers curled inwards to prevent injury and create a mental map of his surroundings. And though the journey was also long as a result, he distracted himself with thoughts of his destination (able to multitask quite effectively from practice) where Kush, a close friend of his—and the person who helped arrange the warehouse and other safehouses, allowing him to navigate them with relative ease—lived. 

It was probably an asshole and monumentally stupid move going there when he knew he was being tracked, but his friend had given the all-clear when this very possibility was brought up—so it was easy to ignore his niggling inner voice that he would be dooming an innocent with his visit today. After all, he was just going to pop in there for a shower, chat, and food, most likely not in that order. 

Feeling the change in texture beneath his soles, signalling the transition from asphalt to concrete ground, he quickly shelved the fearful thought to the furthest recess of his mind. He had finally arrived at his destination—an apartment building Kush often described disparagingly as shabby—and as was the norm, he groped the entrance cautiously, half expecting the structure to crumble at his touch, and found his friend's apartment on the intercom: column three, row five. 

While waiting for a response, there was a moment when he felt the back of his neck get hot, the familiar feeling of someone staring at him intensely, but it went largely ignored. It was best to keep ominous thoughts at bay to better focus on his current objective, and even if someone was indeed looking at him, it wouldn't do to make it known he was aware of their actions. The person, whoever they were and for whatever reason they may be doing this for—he couldn't immediately conclude they had evil intentions; for all he knew they had never seen a blind person walk without aid—was either curious or a coward, and it wouldn't do to encourage such stupidity by paying much attention to it. Whenever they were brave enough to come up to him, he would entertain them. 

Thankfully, it was no sooner after that decision that a distinctively male voice, deep and rough with sleep, crackled through the intercom.

"It's too early in the bloody morning to ask about Jesus, pal! Kindly fuck off, amen!" 

The irritated tone did not deter Min in the slightest; in fact, his expression lit up with fond happiness, almost basking in the rude familiarity of his close friend. And as such, he let out a short bark of laughter. 

"It's Min, you moron!"

"What…?!" Another moment of silence, then vague sounds of crashing, shoving, and scrambling from Kush's end. "Oh, Min, you bloody bastard! Why are you here, man?"

"I need your help; that bitch's tracking me."

"Like right now?"

"No, no," he shook his head along with his words, even though his friend could not see him—only to pause and, remembering the previous night and its implications, reconsider his belief. "Probably; I'm not sure, man. She knew where I was yesterday, and judging by her words, she won't stop because she likes the chase. Fucking psycho bitch."

Kush's reply was immediate, coming out almost like a hiss. "And you still came here?" 

Another laugh, though this was significantly more strained than the previous one. Maybe he should have made sure his friend was cool with the idea first before he came, but the lack of any means of communication made that option unfeasible. Still, he should really start thinking things through before acting. 

"I warned you that might happen."

"It's easier to agree to shit in hindsight." Min could imagine Kush pressing at the bridge of his nose in frustration, lips twisted in a scared frown. "Fuck! I'll be down in a few minutes. J-just wait for me inside, man." The sentence ended with a long, weary sigh, a precursor to one of his tics: rubbing slowly at his face. 

"Sorry, man, didn't mean to drag you into this, but I really need your help."

"Yeah, yeah…"

There was a loud mechanical buzz followed by a click and, hands slightly outstretched in front of himself, he stepped inside and settled into the nearest musty couch, patiently waiting for Kush to come down. Time seemed to stretch on as he heard other people come and go, their easy laughter and conversation blending into a comforting hum, and after what felt like an eternity, he was startled out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder—and it took all he had to not instinctively attack the owner of said hand.

"Don't tell me you came all this way without your white cane?" Body language was lost to him, human nature stripped with ambiguities, but in the smothering dark of his disability, he had learned to pick up the subtle nuances in people's voices by force. Beneath the incredulity in Kush's voice were undercurrents of reproach, concern, and slight awe.

"Lost it ages." Min's words came out shaky as he forced himself to be casual, taking measured breaths to quell his racing heart.

"You could have brought another one,"

Min shrugged before standing. "Can't be arsed at the moment." His hand reached out for the crook of his friend's elbow (a familiar action) and, after grasping it, he continued, his tone that of an exaggerated posh British man. "Now, no more dallying, good sir. Off we go to your abode."

In lieu of a reply, he was pushed not-so-kindly, eliciting loud, shared laughter before his hand was grabbed and he was led into the stairwell, the standard buzz of speech and other indistinct sounds from neighbouring apartments faintly audible amidst their ensuing conversation.