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The memory surged up as soon as he came face-to-face with the person that pulled him. Not one of those ‘things’, but an actual person. Chire stared at the face in front of him in disbelief.

Chire’s fingers skitted up the person’s face to his eyes. Green. Just like his.

The light from the door was only enough to illuminate parts of the man’s face, so Chire used his fingers to feel out the rest.

The grip on his wrist righted and his hands were pulled away. Then once again, he was lifted off of his feet before he could protest.

Chire was flabbergasted. Honestly, the man in front of him looked to be the same height as him, but dainty. Was it a trend to know how to carry someone, probably double your weight? Was there some type of technique? Chire didn’t even struggle as he was carried back into the room. 

When Chire was laid back down on the bed, he rolled over and out of the cover that barely stuck  to his waist and almost onto the floor if not for the magnitude of the mattress. Only when his bare buttocks felt the sting of cold air did he stop.

Chire was about to turn over and was about to gesture to his apparent nakedness, but before he could, Chire heard footsteps sound away from him and he groaned in protest.

He knew he wasn’t in a position to ask, but he felt too vulnerable without the basic protection clothing provided. “My clothes?” He inquired into a pillow.

The man paused. “Incinerated by now, probably,” he answered without turning back.

Chire shrieked into his pillow, “Fuck!” before hastily asking, “What about the things in my pockets?”

Chire then watched the man shrug as he continued walking in the direction of the door.

“Stop right there!” he shouted while scrambling off of the bed and after the man. “What happened to it?”

All too late. Before Chire could catch up, the man was already closing the door with a final thud. Chire kicked the door twice before rolling his eyes and huffing.

Dammit.

Things just got a whole lot harder than it needed to be.

Chire rubber the goosebumps that spread up his arms and made his way back to his only source of comfort. “Fucktard,” he mumbled, bending over for a hot second to massage his foot.

And that was the view the man got when the not-so-hidden door clicked open again. Chire got up and turned around in surprise.

There he was. With a short, sleeveless tunic in hand and an unwelcome guest behind him.

Chire scowled. It was her. With a fucking ‘nother glass bowl in hand - presumebly to do what the first haden’t.

The woman’s cold gaze raked over Chire’s body, assessing. Then she raised her eyebrows.

“Was it thrilling for you?” she asked, pointedly eyeing the mess from the previous bowl that stained the grayish carpet.

Now it was Chire’s turn to shrug, “More or less.”

The woman’s eyes dilated and the next thing Chire knew, his cheeks were being squeezed painfully into a fish shape and that wretched brown liquid was being forced down his throat. 

Chire’s eyes welled up and he immediately started struggling. His hands shot up to try to pull away the pinching hand only to be pushed to the floor a second later. Chire gasped, clutching his throat.

Spluttering coughs escaped his mouth as he struggled to catch his breath. He spat out some of the brown liquid that didn’t make it down his throat as he glared at the woman. “Fucking hell!” he hissed, clearing his throat.

A hand in front of his face was the last thing he saw before nothing.