[ Home , Night ]
"I can do it myself."
"Young Master, you can barely walk to the bathroom."
"I can stand. I can wash. I'm fine."
"You collapsed yesterday."
"That was yesterday."
"Your body hasn't healed."
"It's healed enough."
Angy and I stared at each other across the bathroom threshold. She was holding a washcloth. A simple, innocent washcloth. And yet it had become the most threatening object in the entire house.
"Young Master." Her voice was patient. Too patient. The kind of patient that meant she had no intention of backing down.
"You need to wash. You can't stand long enough to wash properly. Ergo—"
"Ergo?"
"I help."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Young Master."
She stepped closer. I stepped back. Trapped. Bathroom behind me. Chaos in front of me.
"It's not weird. It's practical. I've helped Shenhe before when she was sick. I helped you when you were little. Remember?"
When I was little.
That was different.
I was five.
I'm twenty now.
Twenty.
A freaking adult.
Capable of washing myself.
"That was fifteen years ago."
"And I'm still good at it." She held up the washcloth like a trophy. Like she'd won an award for Excellence in Washing.
"Professional grade."
Professional grade washing.
Of me.
While I'm conscious.
While I'm standing here having this conversation.
"No."
"Young Master—"
"I'll do it myself. With a chair. I'll sit. I'll wash. Problem solved."
She considered this. Tilted her head. Those dark red eyes studying me like I was a puzzle she hadn't solved yet. Like she was running simulations in her head, testing outcomes.
"A chair?"
"Yes."
"In the bathroom?"
"Yes."
"You'll sit and wash?"
"Yes."
"And you won't fall?"
"I won't fall."
She stared at me for a long moment. Ten seconds. Fifteen. The silence stretched.
Then,
"Shenhe! Bring the shower chair!"
Of course.
Of course they have a shower chair.
Why wouldn't they have a shower chair?
Every normal house keeps a shower chair for situations exactly like this.
Shenhe appeared thirty seconds later with a plastic chair. Not a fancy one. Not a medical one. Just a simple, sturdy, definitely not designed for this situation chair that looked like it belonged on a patio somewhere.
She placed it in the bathroom with the precision of someone arranging furniture for a photoshoot. Turned to me.
"Five minutes. If you're not out in five minutes, we're coming in."
"You can't just—"
"We can and we will."
Those blue eyes were serious. Deadly serious.
"You collapsed yesterday. We're not taking chances."
They're serious.
They're actually serious.
They'll burst in here if I take too long.
While I'm naked.
In the shower.
This is my life now.
"Fine. Five minutes."
I closed the door.
Listened to their footsteps retreating.
Turned to face the bathroom.
The chair sat there. Innocent. Accusatory. A symbol of my current state of existence.
This is my life now.
Washing myself on a plastic chair while two maids wait outside timing me.
In a different dimension.
Where no one knows what Dumans are.
Where the biggest threat is tripping over a chicken.
And apparently, falling in the shower.
I sat on the chair.
It was surprisingly comfortable.
Turned on the water.
It was warm. Normal. Safe. The kind of warm that made you forget, for just a moment, that your body felt like it had been through a war.
I washed.
Slowly. Carefully. Making sure I didn't slip, didn't fall, didn't give them a reason to storm in.
And for five minutes—just five minutes—I didn't think about anything.
No Dumans. No Marcus. No jungle. No red-eyed girls.
Just water.
Just warmth.
Just existing.
• • •
I was out in four and a half minutes.
Angy was waiting with a towel. Arms outstretched. Like she'd been standing there the entire time, ready to catch me if I fell.
"I didn't need the towel," I said.
"I know." She held it out anyway. "But you're wet. And it's cold. And I'm here."
I took the towel.
Dried my hair.
Looked at her.
"...Thanks."
She smiled. Real. Warm. The kind of smile that reached her eyes and made her look like a completely different person from the chaos monster who fought over pillows.
"Young Master, you don't have to thank us. That's what we're here for."
That's what they're here for.
To take care of me.
To worry about me.
To time my showers and bring towels and argue about pillows.
To stand outside bathrooms holding washcloths like weapons.
To be here.
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I just nodded.
And went back to bed.
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