Please Give Me Some Food
I slept like the dead.
No dreams came, nor did I have any memory of someone calling my name or shaking my shoulder. When consciousness finally resurfaced, my head felt remarkably clear, as though I had paid off years of accumulated sleep debt in a single stroke.
Before I even opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was the cool touch of fingers pressing gently against the inside of my wrist—light fingertips resting over the spot where my pulse throbbed. When I gave my fingers a slight twitch, the pressure recoiled, tensing for a fleeting fraction of a second.
“...Miss Sonya?”
I slowly prised my eyelids apart.
What met my vision was an unfamiliar ceiling of white plaster and the pale afternoon sunlight slanting through the window bars. And there, sitting on a wooden chair beside the bed, was Irina Weiss.
The usually immaculate elf section chief was a sight to behold. Dressed in a badly rumpled wine-colored vest, her ink-black hair—normally swept down to her waist in perfect order—hung untended and tangled, stray locks clinging to the curve of her cheek. Hollow shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. The moment our gazes met, she leaned forward toward the mattress.
“Can you hear my voice?”
I tried to answer, but my throat was as parched as a salt flat, and nothing came out except an empty rasp of air. Licking my cracked lips with the tip of my tongue, I pointed toward the glass carafe resting on the nightstand.
“Water, please.”
Irina filled a glass without hesitation. Slipping an arm behind me to support my head and shoulders, she lifted me just enough to press the rim against my lips. Gulping down half the lukewarm water smoothed out the sandpaper in my throat.
Taking advantage of being upright, I tried to adjust my posture, only for a sharp stab to flare beneath my right ribs. A heartbeat later, tight pangs seized the muscles in my thighs and calves.
“Move slowly,” Irina murmured.
“I know. Just a little stiff, is all.”
A crisp clink of metal against wood echoed from the window. Sitting before a small table, Bram was watching us. Laid out atop a white cloth were the disassembled components of my Type 91 Rifle, while the R98 sniper rifle—tagged with an evidence slip tied around its stock—stood propped against the adjacent wall.
Bram set down the warped bolt carrier he had been inspecting and shoved his chair back.
Across from him, Orban lay sprawled across a long wooden bench. A seat meant for two normal adults fell woefully short of accommodating his lanky frame; one foot dangled awkwardly over the armrest, and the heavy overcoat he had used as a makeshift pillow had tumbled onto the floorboards. The scraping of Bram's chair roused him instantly. Hurrying to sit up, Orban slammed his knee squarely into the armrest.
“Ah, damn it all...”
Swallowing a string of curses while clutching his bruised kneecap, Orban snapped his head in my direction. The grim tension locked into his features melted away for an instant before settling back into his customary sardonic smirk.
“Look who finally decided to join the living. We yelled in your ear for hours and didn't get a twitch.”
I drained the rest of the glass and handed it back to Irina.
“I had some catching up to do. Best sleep I've had in ages.”
Orban offered no retort. Neither did Bram. Only Irina reached out once more to rest her fingers against my wrist.
“How long was I out?” I asked.
“A little over twenty-eight hours,” she replied softly. “Today is December fifteenth. You did not stir once during that entire time.”
“Huh? That long?”
“We called your name. We shook your shoulders. There was no reaction whatsoever.”
Orban scooped his overcoat off the floor and gave it a brisk shake.
“Even with the medic swearing up and down that your breathing was stable, I couldn't stop sweating. Lost count of how many times I held my hand under your nose just to make sure you were still drawing air.”
Only then did I notice that all three of them were wearing the exact same clothes from yesterday. One tail of Orban's shirt had slipped out of his trousers; dark gun oil was caked beneath Bram's thick fingernails; and Irina's hair lacked its usual immaculate braid. While I had been enjoying the sleep of the dead, none of them had gotten a wink of rest.
Bram stomped over to the bedside and took my hand. He turned it over, examining both the palm and back, before placing two of his thick, callused fingers into my grip.
“Any numbness? Loss of sensation? Give 'em a squeeze. Easy does it.”
I tightened my grip just a fraction. Bram's knuckles instantly blanched stark white.
“All right, let go! You'll snap my fingers at this rate!”
He hastily yanked his hand free. The corner of Orban's mouth twitched upward, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes.
“Well, the grip strength is intact, at least.”
“Told you,” I muttered. “I slept well.”
Instead of answering, Irina reached for the cord hanging beside the headboard and pulled it. A faint bell chimed beyond the plaster wall. A few moments later, the door swung open to reveal a physician clad in a crisp white coat—a human male somewhere in his fifties. Red veins spiderwebbed across the whites of his eyes behind round spectacles, and several glass vials alongside a silver stethoscope were clipped into his breast pocket.
The moment he saw me sitting up, his pace quickened.
“Are you experiencing any nausea? Dizziness?”
“None of that,” I said. “Just starving.”
“An appetite is a promising sign. Where is the pain most severe?”
“Do I have to pick just one?”
“Generalized systemic soreness falls within expected parameters.”
The physician took my wrist from Irina, checking my pulse while peeling back my eyelids to examine the pupils. Next came the chill of the stethoscope against my chest and back. When he instructed me to inhale deeply, the sharp needle stabbed beneath my right ribs all over again.
“Two hairline fractures along the ribs,” he declared, stepping back. “A sprain in the right shoulder ligament, along with multiple minor muscle tears throughout your thighs and back. Under normal circumstances, an ordinary person wouldn't be standing, let alone walking, for quite some time.”
“I can walk.”
“Being capable of an action does not mean you are permitted to perform it. You are not to leave this bed today.”
He unlatched a black wooden case resting on the side table. Inside lay a palm-sized transparent plate fitted with a delicate silver needle, its perimeter scored with microscopic measurement gradations. Turning my palm upward, the physician set the plate flat against my skin, aligning the silver tip with the notch on my inner wrist.
“Remain still.”
The tip of the needle gave a faint, microscopic tremor. That was all. The doctor peered into the glass, tapped the edge with his fingernail, and reseated it, but the needle refused to crest even the first baseline notch.
“I conducted this test three times throughout the night,” he muttered. “Replaced the diagnostic instrument twice.”
“Is it broken?” I asked.
“I had hoped so.” He tilted the glass plate toward Irina and Orban. “At present, this child's mana reserves hover at the absolute lower threshold of detection. It is so infinitesimally small that it defies comparison to an ordinary adult.”
Bram scowled deeply.
“Dock laborers smoke Cheonghoecho all the time.”
“A healthy physical constitution does not hemorrhage its mana from a stick or two of low-grade Cheonghoecho,” the physician countered. “Even if the internal circulation slackens, the body naturally recaptures its reserves in short order.” He pressed his thumb against the inside of my wrist, his gaze returning to the gauge. “According to the diagnostics, while her capacity for mana storage is essentially nonexistent, the neural pathways through which mana conducts are developed to an abnormal degree. Following the inhalation of the herb, even the ambient mana drawn in from the surrounding atmosphere refused to settle in her vessels, venting outward through her optic nerves. Her internal mana was not burning away—rather, the atmospheric energy coursing straight through her body continuously generated those ghost flames.”
Orban crossed his arms, his brows furrowed.
“So with all that fire pouring out of her eyes, she barely lost any internal mana at all?”
“Precisely. If an ordinary individual manifested ghost flames of that scale, it would indicate that their internal reserves had already suffered catastrophic depletion. In this child's case, however, the vessel was practically empty from the outset.”
“Is there any risk of delayed shock?” Irina asked quietly.
The physician paused before answering.
“The window for shock stemming from mana detachment has passed. Her current exhaustion is simply the physical recoil of pushing enhanced musculature beyond its tolerances, compounded by blunt impact trauma. As the analgesic effects of the Cheonghoecho metabolized away, the bodily pain returned all at once.”
Irina's stiff shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. Her fingers, which had lifted away from my wrist, lightly grazed the edge of the mattress.
“However,” the doctor said, turning his piercing gaze back to me, “there is one matter regarding these results I must clarify. While there are individuals born with naturally low mana reserves, I have never encountered someone this thoroughly vacant. It is closer to an inherent physical inability to hold mana at all. Have you been like this since birth?”
“I don't know.”
“Are there similar conditions among your blood relatives?”
“I don't know.”
It wasn't a lie. No memory of my parents survived from before the age of four, and my family from my previous life didn't exist in this world. Sensing no opening, the physician pressed no further. He scrawled several lines across a chart board beside the bed, sternly reminding me not to stand up and to restrict my diet to water and thin gruel for the day.
“One guardian may remain. The rest of you, step outside. Now that the patient has regained consciousness, I must prepare the follow-up rounds.”
Orban looked down at me, a lopsided grin touching his lips.
“I'll go rustle up something real to eat. That watery slime they serve in here won't even tickle your ribs.”
“Make sure it has meat in it,” I croaked.
“Cracked ribs and barely awake, and the first thing you do is bark orders.”
“I haven't eaten in twenty-eight hours.”
“Fine, fine. If it's too tough for you to chew, I'll have them grind it into the broth.”
Orban clapped Bram on the shoulder, steering the half-dwarf toward the hallway. Bram paused at the door, pointing a stubby finger toward the disassembled service rifle.
“Havel asked me to inspect both pieces to make sure they weren't hazards,” Bram grunted. “Cleared the live round out of the Type 91's chamber. Barrel and walnut stock held up, but the bolt assembly and hammer mechanism are going to need a full overhaul. As for the R98, it's already tagged as material evidence, so I only checked the exterior.”
“That's mine,” I protested.
“You took it, sure, but a sniper used it to murder people. Until the Guard finishes their inquest, it's state property.”
“Do I get it back once the investigation wraps?”
“Take that up with Lieutenant Havel. I'll vouch for the gun's condition, but that's all.”
Refusing to make any empty promises, Bram followed Orban out the door. The physician ran a final check on my body temperature and pupillary reflexes before sweeping out of the room with his clipboard, leaving only Irina behind.
She pulled her chair closer to the bed. Though she had slipped her glove back onto her left hand, her right remained bare.
“The corporate headquarters dossier I reviewed previously only detailed your physical enhancement metrics and operational side effects,” she murmured, her voice cool and low. “There was no mention of your mana disposition.”
Her grey eyes drifted toward my exposed arm resting atop the bedsheets. On the pale skin of the inner forearm, the faded, track-like scars left by countless puncture needles remained visible.
“Are those marks from the facility's experiments as well?”
I stared up at the ceiling. The afternoon sun cast long, slanted bars across the white plaster.
“Those are from the weekly diagnostic blood draws and separate test reagents,” I answered flatly. “The drug that rebuilt my body was administered orally.”
“An oral formulation?”
“When I was four, they handed it out in little glass vials. Later on, they just mixed it into the morning soup. Whenever our output lagged behind their targets, the broth tasted sharper.”
My fingers curled inward, the nails digging into the bedsheets. Irina's gaze tracked the movement.
“There were twenty-three of us who ate that soup at the beginning,” I said. “The ones who couldn't handle it were dragged out of the barracks. We never saw them again.”
Silence hung between us for a long beat.
“You do not need to speak of it further,” Irina said softly.
“I've said all there is to say.”
When I relaxed my hand, faint crescent indents remained stamped into my palm. Irina asked no more questions. Instead, her bare hand rose and settled gently atop my head.
Her cool palm pressed against my tangled platinum hair, smoothing down the frayed strands before releasing them. Slowly, her fingers combed back from my forehead toward the crown. Whenever a knot caught her fingertips, she eased her strength, patiently working it free.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you dislike it?”
“It's not that I dislike it. It's just... sudden.”
“I simply wished to do so.”
Each time her fingers drifted through my hair, a faint, soothing tension tugged at my scalp. It felt remarkably similar to the way she had untangled my hair at the public baths. Lying in a warm bed with someone gently stroking my hair, the heavy fog of drowsiness threatened to pull me under once more. I closed my eyes.
“Are you falling asleep again?”
“Not sleeping. Just resting my eyes.”
“That is precisely what you said right before you collapsed on the platform.”
“I mean it this time.”
A faint, airy chuckle slipped past Irina's lips, but her hand never stopped its steady, rhythmic strokes. While pretending to sleep felt somewhat absurd after being out cold for twenty-eight hours, opening my eyes now seemed equally awkward. So I stayed still, letting the quiet wash over me.
Before long, Orban's booming voice carried from the corridor, loudly insisting that the stew had plenty of meat in it. While his promises were rarely ironclad, the rich aroma wafting through the door was undeniably authentic.
Orban strode in first carrying a lidded pot, followed closely by Bram balancing a stack of ceramic bowls and spoons. Bringing up the rear was Lieutenant Havel, clutching a thick sheaf of folded documents beneath his arm. A fresh white bandage was bound tightly around his left shoulder.
“Your complexion looks better than yesterday,” Havel observed curtly.
Orban set the pot down and hauled off the lid. A thick, steaming broth revealed generous chunks of shredded beef and tender potatoes. While Bram ladled the soup into a bowl, Havel unfolded his papers. When I tried to push myself upright, my side screamed in protest; Orban quickly wedged a second pillow behind my back, and Irina took the bowl from Bram to settle it carefully onto my lap.
Just as I swallowed my first steaming spoonful of meat, Havel flipped to the first page of his report.
“The briefcase you secured has been placed in evidence lockup intact,” the lieutenant stated. “The ledgers and freight dispatch slips inside are fully preserved.”
He turned the page.
“The accounting department's records archive has been officially sealed, and audit teams are currently cross-referencing the documents. We've rounded up the complicit station clerks, and the sniper you trussed up on the rooftop is in solitary confinement. The gravity mage in the maintenance depot suffered a severe skull fracture, but he's still breathing.”
Bram glanced at the cracked stock of the Type 91 and let out a dry huff.
“What about Lentz and the security chief?” I asked around a mouthful of potato.
Havel turned to the next sheet.
“They slipped away. They exited via the east maintenance conduit and vanished into the underbelly. That tunnel connects to three separate drainage outflows leading into the main sewer system; we didn't have the manpower to seal every valve in time.”
He offered the facts plainly, without making excuses.
“Regardless, the books remain in our hands. A fugitive security chief doesn't erase official corporate seals or the paper trail of embezzled funds.”
“Has the mage woken up?”
“Still comatose. Even when he comes around, interrogating him will have to wait until we procure an interpreter fluent in Kasha.”
On the bedside nightstand sat a battered, squashed pack of Cheonghoecho. Irina picked it up, flipping the lid to reveal the solitary remaining roll—snapped clean in the middle—and two wooden matches. In her other hand, she held the official medical advisory drafted by the attending physician.
Observed Symptoms: Acute mana expulsion through the cranial-optic pathway resulting from excessive Cheonghoecho inhalation.
Warning: Repeat consumption of an equivalent dosage is strictly prohibited.
“I am returning what remains,” Irina said.
“You didn't toss it?”
“It belongs to you, Miss Sonya.”
“If I hadn't smoked it,” I pointed out, “I wouldn't have dodged that gravity spell.”
“I know.” Irina closed the cardboard flap and pressed the crumpled pack into my hand. “Even so, I believe you ought to indulge in moderation.”
It was an admonition I had heard until my ears bled in my previous life. The only difference was that the lecture had shifted from cheap liquor to narcotic tobacco. A stifled snort escaped my lips.
“Miss Sonya,” Irina warned, her brow knitting into a stern line.
“I'll try,” I said, folding the advisory sheet into fourths and shoving both it and the crushed pack deep into the pocket of my overcoat.
Irina's stern expression softened slightly. Meanwhile, Orban picked up the physician's diagnostic ledger. The entry recording internal mana capacity was marked by a single, abrupt strike drawn well below the first notch.
“Does this test record get forwarded to ARC headquarters?” Orban asked, his tone measured.
“Treatment records are subject to executive audit,” Irina confirmed. “However, I will record the current reading as an anomalous baseline requiring subsequent reevaluation. What you shared with me just now will not appear in the dispatch.”
Orban looked at me, then handed the paper back to her without a word.
Havel tucked his files back beneath his arm.
“Orban can brief you on the rest. I have two fugitives to hunt down.”
Tapping the open door with the back of his knuckles, the lieutenant turned on his heel and strode out of the infirmary.
By then, my bowl was nearly scraped clean. The shredded meat was so tender it practically dissolved against my tongue. The broth leaned slightly bland, but at this moment, it tasted like heaven. I had never realized how deeply satisfying it was to eat a meal that didn't demand any effort to chew.
The moment I tilted the bowl back to drain the last drops of savory liquid, Orban reached for the ladle.
“Want another?”
I held out the empty bowl. Orban scooped up another generous mound of meat and steaming broth, filling it to the brim.
Watching the soup steam into the chill air, Irina finally leaned her back against the wooden chair, letting her weary shoulders rest.