Love accidental to addiction

The oppressive heat was the first thing Ryo registered, a thick, suffocating blanket that clung to him like a second skin. It was the kind of heat that made the air shimmer, even indoors, a constant, low-grade torment in his small, perpetually-stifling apartment. He stirred, a groan escaping his lips, his head a throbbing drum solo of pain and regret. Every muscle in his body felt like it had been individually pummeled by a team of miniature, angry gnomes.

Then came the second realization, far more immediate and alarming than the heat: he couldn't breathe.

A heavy, surprisingly dense weight was pressed firmly against his face, specifically over his nose and mouth. His eyes, still mostly glued shut, darted open in a panicked flicker, revealing only a blur of dark fur inches from his vision. His lungs burned, screaming for air.

What the hell…?

"Great," Ryo mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Just great. A cat on my face. This is how I die. Suffocated by a stray."

Gasping, he thrashed a hand upwards, blindly swatting at the obstruction. His fingers met something soft, furry, and surprisingly resilient. A muffled squawk, a sudden jolt, and the weight lifted. Ryo inhaled a ragged, gasping breath, the stale, humid air of his room never tasting so sweet.

He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, trying to clear the fog from his mind. Slowly, his vision sharpened. Perched precariously on his pillow, less than a foot from his face, sat a large, fluffy, jet-black cat. Its eyes, luminous emeralds in the dim light, regarded him with an unnervingly calm, almost judgmental stare. It looked utterly unbothered, as if Ryo's near-suffocation was a minor inconvenience it had graciously allowed.

"You," Ryo rasped, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. "You tried to kill me."

The cat blinked slowly, then let out a soft, almost polite "mrrrow." It then proceeded to methodically lick a paw, giving him the distinct impression it was entirely unimpressed by his dramatic outburst.

Ryo pushed himself up, propping himself against the sticky, peeling wallpaper of his headboard. The cat, unfazed, began kneading its claws into his pillow, purring like a tiny, rumbling engine. He vaguely remembered stumbling in last night, the world spinning, a cacophony of street sounds and his own slurred thoughts. He certainly didn't remember acquiring a cat. Or how it had managed to sneak past the perpetually flimsy, half-broken lock on his front door.

His gaze swept around the room, confirming its usual deplorable state. This was not an apartment; it was a testament to urban decay. The ceiling above his bed bore a large, damp stain, an ever-expanding continent of mildew where water regularly dripped during the monsoon season and even, inexplicably, when it hadn't rained in weeks. A bucket sat forlornly on the floor beneath it, half-filled with murky water, a monument to the landlord's 'imminent' repairs. The ancient ceiling fan, relic of a bygone era, hung precariously, its blades warped and still, mocking him with its utter refusal to spin. The air was thick, heavy, tasting faintly of damp plaster and despair. Clothes lay in various stages of abandonment on the floor, forming treacherous archipelagos amidst discarded food wrappers and empty instant noodle cups. The single window, crusty with grime, offered a view of a grimy alleyway and a perpetually overflowing dumpster.

He sighed, the sound a mix of exhaustion and resignation. His head throbbed with renewed vigor, a rhythmic pounding that beat in time with his erratic pulse.

Aah, my head… last night.

Flashes, disjointed and blurry, began to surface from the murky depths of his memory. The streetlights blurring into streaks of neon. The suffocating humid air, even at what must have been past midnight. He was stood, no, swaying, right in the middle of the road. Why? He couldn't quite grasp it.

And then, a girl. Or whatever. The details were hazy, like looking at an old photograph through. A flash of light, a movement, a laugh that was either beautiful or mocking, he couldn't tell. It was too hot. Was he referring to the weather? Or the situation? A feeling of intense heat, like a spotlight, or a sudden fever.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the images into coherence. Nothing. Just a swirling vortex of confusion and a persistent metallic taste in his mouth.

With another groan, Ryo swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards creaked in protest, ancient wood groaning under his weight. The cat, startled by the sudden movement, leaped gracefully from the bed and landed silently on the floor, weaving expertly through the debris field of his room before disappearing under the saggy, threadbare sofa.

Ryo stumbled towards the small, cramped bathroom. The mirror above the sink, streaked with toothpaste residue and water spots, reflected a ghastly image: a young man with dishevelled, dark hair sticking out at odd angles, bloodshot eyes peering from beneath dark circles, and a faint stubble that did little to hide the pallor of his skin. He looked less like a human and more like a highly distressed badger.

He splashed cold water on his face, once, twice, three times. The chill was a shock, a welcome slap of reality that momentarily dulled the throbbing in his skull. He scrubbed at his face, trying to wash away the lingering ghost of last night, the unknown implications of the "girl or whatever," the unsettling feeling that something important had happened, something he couldn't recall.

As he dried his face with a towel that was arguably past its prime, he could hear the distinct, rhythmic KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK on his apartment door. It wasn't a tentative knock, or a friendly one. It was the knock of authority, of impatience, of impending doom.

He froze. Who could be now? His mind, still sluggish, raced through the possibilities.