Milan took the narrow alley like always, cutting between two quiet streets. The cobblestones were cold, the air carried a sharp evening chill, and the sky above the roofs was already turning blue‑violet.314Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMvZU5w9r1h
Then he heard it — metal clashing against metal, a short, harsh crash.
He turned his head and saw the bike rack first. One bicycle was twisted out of place, its front wheel turned at an odd angle.
And then he saw her.
A small girl was half tangled inside the metal frame of the rack, lying on the ground, long violet‑black hair spilling over the stones. Her nekomimi ears drooped low, her tail lay limp beside her. She wore a simple, light white dress — thin fabric, short, loose, made for warm days, not for this kind of cold. Her legs were bare. Her feet were bare. No jacket. No coat. No shoes anywhere in sight.
Milan felt his chest tighten for a second. That wasn’t just careless. That was… wrong for this weather.
He stepped closer and saw her face properly. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, her nose red and damp, her eyes half‑lidded and glassy. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, like every inhale took effort.
A small pink origami butterfly hovered near her head, its flight unstable, wings dipping and wobbling as if it was exhausted too.
Milan knelt down beside her. “Hey… can you hear me?”
Her eyes slowly shifted toward him, pupils thin, focus drifting. “Mnn… Sumire… hears you… kinda… nyan…” Her voice was soft and hoarse, words slightly blurred.
He glanced again at her dress and bare feet. “Did you really go out like this?”
She frowned faintly, as if trying to pull a memory out of fog. “Sumire was… so hot… inside… everything spinning… clothes felt heavy‑nyan…” Her ears twitched weakly. “Thought… ‘just quick ride, fresh air’… forgot shoes… forgot… everything…”
So she’d stumbled out in a fever haze, grabbed her bike in just a light dress, no shoes, no sense of how cold it really was. Her body burning, her mind foggy, her judgment gone.
The origami butterfly dipped low, almost brushing the ground, then pulled itself up again with a shaky flutter, staying close to her.
Milan carefully freed her from the bike rack, lifting the bicycle and setting it properly into place. Then he turned back to her and offered his arm.
“You can’t stay out here,” he said quietly. “You’re burning up. Let me take you home.”
She tried to sit up, but her arms trembled and gave out. Milan slid an arm behind her back and another under her arm, helping her rise slowly. She was light, too warm, her skin hot through the thin fabric of the dress.
“S‑sorry…” she murmured, leaning into him. “Sumire didn’t… think straight‑nyan… just wanted the world to stop spinning…”
“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re sick. That’s all. We’ll get you home, then you can rest.”
The origami butterfly fluttered closer and landed clumsily on her hair, as if it didn’t have the strength to keep floating.
“Can you tell me where you live?” he asked.
She nodded slowly, eyes closing for a moment. “Mm… close… Sumire can show… just… don’t let go‑nyan…”
“I won’t,” Milan answered.314Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡde2d4X7SHs
And so they left the alley together — a boy in a gray hoodie, a feverish nekomimi girl in a dress far too light for the cold, and a tired little paper butterfly doing its best to stay with her until she was safe.314Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmoMCW1oAtR
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Milan didn't hesitate. He scooped Sumire up, one arm securely under her knees, the other supporting her back. She was impossibly light, a warm, fragile weight against his chest. The heat radiating from her skin was alarming, a clear sign of the fever raging inside her.
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“Which way?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
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Sumire pointed a weak, slender arm down the street. “That way… two blocks… big stone building… with the ivy… nyan.”
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He started walking, the cold air biting at his own exposed skin, but he focused on the heat of her body. The small pink origami butterfly lifted from her hair and fluttered ahead, its flight still wobbly, acting as a tiny, exhausted guide.
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The walk was short but felt long. Sumire was mostly silent, her head resting against his shoulder, her breathing shallow. He could feel the soft, violet-black fur of her ears brush his neck with every slight movement.
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They reached the building she described—an old, imposing block of dark stone, partially covered in dormant ivy.
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“Which floor?”
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“Second… door on the left… with the little… cat knocker… nyan.”
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Milan navigated the dimly lit, cool hallway and found the door. Now came the hard part.
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“Okay, I need your keys,” he murmured, keeping his grip firm.
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She fumbled weakly inside the thin fabric of her dress, pulling out a small, silver ring with two keys. Her hand was shaking.
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Milan had to shift her slightly to take the keys, and the movement made her giggle, a soft, breathy sound.
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“What’s funny?”
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“You’re… tickling Sumire… with my… elbow… nyan.”
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He adjusted his arm, trying to be more careful, and took the keys. The lock was old and stiff. He had to hold Sumire with one arm while using the other to carefully insert the key and turn it, the metal cold against his fingers. It took a moment of fiddling, but the lock finally clicked open.
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He pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside. The apartment was small, quiet, and smelled faintly of old paper and lavender.
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Milan carried her straight to the bedroom. The bed was simple, covered with a thick, soft duvet. He knelt and gently lowered her onto the mattress.
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“Don’t move,” he instructed, pulling the duvet back.
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She was shivering now that the immediate contact with his body was gone. He worked quickly and carefully. He unzipped the back of her thin white dress, pulling the fabric down her arms and over her bare legs. He was meticulous, keeping his eyes focused on the task, ensuring her modesty was preserved. He draped the dress over a nearby chair.
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She was left in only a pair of simple white panties. Her skin was flushed, and she curled into a fetal position, trying to conserve heat.
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He found a set of pajamas folded neatly on a shelf—a soft, oversized flannel set with a subtle pattern of tiny stars. He gently helped her slide her arms into the top, then lifted her legs one by one to pull the bottoms on. The flannel was warm and comforting.
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Finally, he pulled the duvet up to her chin. She let out a soft, contented sigh, her nekomimi ears relaxing against the pillow.
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“Thank you…” she whispered, already drifting.
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He watched her for a moment, then turned his attention to the room. She needed medicine.
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He began a quiet search, starting in the small bathroom. He opened the cabinet above the sink, then the one below. Nothing but toiletries.
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He moved to the main living area, looking for a small box or a designated shelf. He checked a small, wooden cupboard near the kitchen. Inside, he found a small, white plastic box with a red cross sticker on it.
*First Aid Kit.*
Milan opened the First Aid Kit, his movements quiet and efficient. He scanned the contents: bandages, antiseptic wipes, a roll of gauze, but no fever reducers—no acetaminophen, no ibuprofen, nothing to bring down the alarming heat of her body.
He closed the box with a soft click and turned back to the bed. Just as he did, Sumire’s body gave a sudden, violent shudder. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The duvet rose and fell with the intensity of the shaking.
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*Chills.* The fever was spiking.
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Milan moved instantly. He found a second, heavier blanket folded at the foot of the bed and quickly draped it over her, tucking it tightly around her shoulders. Next, he rushed to the small kitchen sink and soaked a clean washcloth in cold water. He wrung it out until it was just damp and cool, then returned to the bedroom.
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“I’m just going to cool you down a little,” he murmured, gently placing the cold compress across her forehead.
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Sumire flinched at the sudden cold, letting out a small, weak sound. “C-cold… nyan…”
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“I know,” the young man soothed, holding the cloth in place. “Just for a minute.”
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He sat beside her, replacing the compress every few minutes as it warmed against her skin. Slowly, the violent shaking subsided. Her breathing became a little steadier, and the deep flush on her cheeks seemed to recede by the smallest degree. The cold compresses had managed to take the edge off the worst of the fever, but it was only a temporary fix.
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He checked the time. It was late, but not too late. He needed proper medicine.
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Milan stood up. He looked down at the sleeping girl, her violet-black hair fanned out on the pillow, the small paper butterfly resting motionless near her head.
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He made a quick decision. He slipped the key ring into the pocket of his hoodie. He would be back in minutes, and he needed them to get back inside.
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“I’m going out for a minute,” he whispered, his voice firm. “I’ll be right back with medicine. Don’t worry.”
The night air was biting, but Milan barely felt the cold as he hurried toward the glowing green sign of the 24‑hour pharmacy at the edge of the district. Inside, the harsh white light stung his tired eyes. He moved quickly, grabbing fever reducers, electrolytes, and cooling patches. He didn’t wait for the receipt — his mind was already back in that quiet apartment that smelled faintly of lavender and old paper.
When he returned, the only sound in the room was Sumire’s shallow, uneven breathing. He went straight to her side. With a steady exhale, he slid an arm behind her shoulders and lifted her gently until her head rested against his chest.
“Sumire, you need to drink this,” he murmured, holding the medicine to her lips.
She swallowed automatically, a small, strained “nyan…” escaping before her head slumped back against him. Her skin was still frighteningly hot. He rubbed his palms together once — a tiny, unconscious gesture — before helping her change into a fresh set of pajamas. Then he stripped the damp sheets with quiet efficiency and replaced them with cool, clean linen. Every movement was careful, deliberate, meant only to ease her discomfort.
When he tucked her in again, she curled instinctively into the blankets, her breathing a little steadier.
Milan pulled a wooden chair close to the bed. The floorboards creaked softly under his weight. He lifted the cloth from her forehead, rinsed it in the basin of cool water he’d prepared, and laid it back with a gentle touch. On the pillow beside her, the small pink origami butterfly twitched its wings once — a fragile flicker of life.
In the dim light, he took out his phone. The screen’s glow cut sharply through the stillness. He hesitated for a heartbeat, thumb hovering, then typed:
“Hey, a friend of mine is really sick and needs help. I’m going to stay over tonight to keep an eye on her. Don’t worry — I’ll be home in the morning.”314Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmN62YodxkA
He sent the message and placed the phone face‑down on the nightstand, letting the outside world fade away. Leaning back, he folded his arms and watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the faint, tired twitch of her violet‑black ears.
He would wait. He would keep watch until the fever eased, until the spinning stopped, until Sumire was safe again.314Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU3gdhGQiAl
ns216.73.216.134da2
and then Add to home screen.