There's no time to breathe.

Darting into the flat, I crash through the storage door. I search the loose floorboard, fishing out the metal cube. The shrimps click excitedly. Eager claws try to reach the small hole on its lid, fighting for the leftover worms Auntie Morgan gave them this morning.

The sirens sound like wails of a newborn, ear-splitting.

Timid footsteps rush behind me as I grab my satchel and shove the cube into it. Miro barely blinks as I snatch his hand, thundering towards the door.

Sandra looks paler, her lips hesitating to voice out. Contrasting her is Roy, already with his mask back and a gray hood. Clutched in his hand is a black-and-white Rubik's Cube—a modified weapon. Only Highlifes have access to such extraordinaire.

"We'll meet you at Huntshire." Small shakes rattle his shoulders, despite his calm demeanor. "Sandra, don't get lost. Do you have your civetone?"

A small bottle pokes out from her overall's pocket.

Why is he doing this? Though those people work under his dad, they won't recognize his disguise. What if he gets hurt?

"We have to go." Sandra firmly grabs my arm, yanking me to the opposite way. The sirens blare louder, bouncing off the solid buildings. "I'll explain why later—"

They're already in the alleyway. After messy screeches, sounds of unlocked doors slash the air. Dozens of brown-clothed and masked police scramble out. The three bulky officers from OCZ are also here.

Miro's nails dig into my skin. Sandra's tugs become more urgent, desperate. I search for another platinum-head. In the cars and under. Behind the tight group, since she's an average-height.

Where is Lin-Irene?

"We have to go." A pinch lashes my arm, and I turn to find Sandra's pleading eyes. "Roy's doing this for you. Irene and his family have done too much trouble—"

"Put that cube down." I freeze as a skinny, weaponless man marches to the head of the crowd. But instead of glaring at me, he aims it at Roy. He really has caught all their attention...

Roy barely obeys it as he whistles a strange tune, flipping the tension upside-down.

"We're here to search flat number six." The man holds a scroll-length paper up. My courage falters. Really—such effort for these shrimps? They can have it back if they want—

"No." Sandra glares at me, losing her innocent face. "I know what you're thinking. You can't give them up."

Did I just speak out loud again?

"But it will solve everything. We won't have to run away and hide. Auntie Morgan will be free—"

"Why is it hard for you to listen?" My ears lost track of the other party as Sandra blabbers, "I'm OCZ's vet assistant. These shrimps are meant to be killers." She emphasizes each word like pressing a dagger. "They were meant for your family. And your community. Now they're taking back their weapons after last night's victory. You can't give those back."

Wait, what? So Auntie Morgan's theories about OCZ are true?

Blue tongues of the taser rods flare from afar like beacons. Has Roy angered them?

Miro's continuous yawns distract me from both Roy and Sandra.

"You're so clueless. That's why Roy and I should help you." She looks back at Roy's cube-flipping hand, sheepishly giggling. Her grip on my wrist tightens. "We'll leave once he stops tossing."

My head is still in the clouds when the cube erupts into a massive wall, shielding Roy from the tasers' outstretched tongues.

Sandra shoves me forward. Miro struggles to grasp my slippery hand. Clinks from the satchel match the rhythm of my heart beat. Continuous, frantic.

The view is a hazy blur. Streets turn into narrow alleyways. Sidewalks into shortcuts through some gardens. Staring passersby into dim streetlights. The orange sky gradually shifting to purple.

There are moving shadows on the roads, not human-like.

Air refuses to support my lungs the longer I run. They're about to explode. Miro slips back sometimes, his shorter legs struggling to catch up. Sandra pants like a hound, sticking her tongue out as we advance farther, away from Dogson's center. Away from the authorities with hidden ulterior motives.

The nearer we are to the outskirts, the less-polished the streets are.

Lowlife, though being a secondary class, are still able to adapt to today's aesthetic standards in a simpler way. However, the outskirts lack lots of careful touches. I almost trip on a fallen street sign. Barren twigs curl out of the lining trees, the leaves scattered everywhere. No stores are opened, refusing to be our temporary sanctuary.

It's the dead part of Dogson.

"Do you hear that?" Sandra gasps between her breath. "That low growl?"

I set aside the whipping breeze that hammers my ears. Buried under our haste is a throaty rumbling, like a coughing volcano. It's facing down at us.

"Is it an animal?"

"Possibly." Sandra lurches at the first turn on our right, skidding in front of a wide metal door. She presses her back on it, a hand on her chest. Miro throws a tantrum using nursery rhymes and other childish terms, panting like a hunted animal.

Before a word leaves our lips, the rumbling arrives right above us. I peek from the store's screaky awning. On the rooftop of this two-story building is a hunching figure of a...

"Tiger," Sandra whispers. "Why hasn't OCZ found him? This nonstop growling must be Ax."

Again, the thirteen-year-old incident resurfaces. A man bathed in blood under my feet. An old tiger who bared its countable teeth, as if smirking. The man saying, "Run, boy!"

Once Sandra's words about the shrimps' goals dawn on me, I can worm out of the paralyzing memory. "Are we in trouble, even if you know him?"

"Maybe."

Huntshire Woods' outline is faintly across us. Selenite Landfill, the forest-turned-wasteland, is a crossing away.

What's the worst scenario if we cross the empty road, straight to Selenite and into Huntshire? The tiger might pounce on one of us first, leaving the other with a fleeing chance or the responsibility to help.

"Can you use that?" Miro whispers, pointing to a rusty crowbar under the metal door. It's the length of my arm. The rust makes it heavier, but it might work.

In a blink, the beast lands gracefully a few feet in front of us. Its fangs are bared. Muscles bulk out of its black-striped, dirt-smudged body.

I glance at the crowbar again. What can a good scratch do to its thick skin?

When I turn to Sandra to ask whether the crowbar has a chance, she closes her eyes tightly, as if meditating. It's a miracle her trembling knees haven't buckled. Her frail fingers clasp around the bottle Roy referred to earlier.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to remember what Mom taught me. But I can't. I'm a vet, not a trainer. And if Ax does recognize me"—she bites her lip, clenching her tensed jaws—"will he obey my orders, or—"

Ax approaches, roaring with malice; is this also caused by the whatever-quin?

I snatch the crowbar, holding it like a sword. I repeatedly swing it to push the beast away. But he growls louder instead. Supported by either courage or fear, I advance, hurling the crowbar at his body. Sharp pain rips my arm as his fangs dip into it, chewing a chunk of my skin. He throws me away. Blindness hits me like a veil. The coarse asphalt grazes my aching back, the world tilting upside down.

The crowbar clinks not far away. From a slightly further distance, a timid figure with a messy braid approaches the blood-toothed beast.

With the opened bottle in her trembling hand, Sandra reaches out to it. Her eyes flutter as Ax sniffs it for a few minutes. At the same time, her lips move subtly, sputtering unheard words. With time, the fury in Ax's eyes melt, morphing into longing.

Not even pain can stop my smile when Ax licks Sandra's wrist, closing the gap between it and the bottle. Sandra draws her hand back and forth, before settling on the creature's ear, caressing it like it's a puppy. In seconds—painful ones for me—the tiger cuddles with Sandra, who occasionally giggles.

Thank God; thirteen years ago doesn't repeat itself today. I finally exhale the breath I've been keeping.

"Are you okay?" Miro crouches next to me, my cursed satchel on his back. I nod, being silently proud. Creatures from his nightmare are in that satchel and he carries it for me, even if he brings out a forced smile. But it only lasts until, "Um, can we go quickly? This bag scares me. A lot."

Seems that dying is better than being teased by Auntie Morgan's genes in Miro.

🐾

Dusk isn't the best time to visit a forest for the first time.

"Rainforest," Sandra corrects. Did she just—"I didn't read your mind. You spoke that out loud."

My mood sours since Sandra let the beast join our group. It's a killing machine, like those shrimps. We'll be feasted on before midnight. But she guesses how adult animals are less likely to be influenced, including by whatever-quin, which she happens to know nothing about. "They rely more on instincts than what's taught to them. Those shrimps are still young enough, I think. They're more... obedient."

So was killing me Ax's first instinct?

"Ax didn't want to kill you." Sandra frowns, in sync with the tiger's approving hum. "You aimed a crowbar first. And he didn't know you."

I sigh, pressing down the words in my throat. My wound stings. Blood oozes out from my arm, dripping on the ground. If I ever scratch myself against a bark, or stumble upon a muddy puddle, Mr. Alvaro and my fellow couriers at Daily Dose will regret teaching me how to curse.

Nothing can brighten me besides a good injury treatment. If only that magic bottle which tamed Ax could also heal me.

"Nah"—Sandra quirks half a brow—"civetone only works as a lure for tigers and jaguars. And no one, even Ax, can waste it. I'm using it to track down my favorite baby jaguars from OCZ..."

We advance farther into Huntshire Woods, passing rows of fruitful bushes, swaying trees, and sprawling vines. Several bird nests lie on the ground, peeking under the piling leaves. It's supposed to be calming, if only my memory stops insisting recollection. Under the scarce lighting, there are blood stains on the ground... actually, there are none. The tree barks are smooth, without scratches.

Miro enters a silent abyss as his pace falls behind ours. Images of Auntie Morgan and my parents with cuffed wrists rattle my concentration.

How will I tell him? Will there be a right time? What if he blames me for everything...

Sandra holds my healthy hand, briefly squeezing it. The blink of her eye hints how she knows something I don't. Her kind gesture soothes my insides, dampening all the brewing turmoil. For a while. "Thanks."

Her smile reaches her eyes. "You never stop thinking and asking, huh? Now, we're almost there. Hang on, Roy might arrive already. He can prepare whatever you and your cousin need..."

Beezus, I forget about him. I worm out of her grip by instinct. Before I can seal my mouth, a question slips out, "How close are you two?"

She's yet to spurt out an answer when a house appears above a tree in the distance. Through more rustlings and twig-snapping, we reach a sanctuary surrounded by a semicircle of lush trees with dented barks and owlish hoots. The ground is floored with various junks, similar to Auntie Morgan's storage room. Yet, the air is clear, not stinky nor muffled. The house is on the largest tree, like a throne in a hall.

What is this place?