05 [ Odd ]
998 Words
Amica pulled into her driveway and let out a deep sigh. The long day had drained her, but she knew the real exhaustion was about to begin. Before stepping out of the car, she stretched her arms above her head, cracking her neck. It wasn’t just fatigue she was bracing for—it was the chaos that awaited her inside.
Quaszi.
Her heat season was approaching, and that meant Amica’s quiet nights were about to turn into a battle zone.
With another resigned breath, she finally pushed open the car door and made her way inside. The second she stepped through the threshold, a long, drawn-out moan echoed through the house.
“What a lovely day to be a normal human,” she muttered under her breath, grimacing.
She hung her coat on the rack, the weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders, and made her way to the sala. And there she was—Quaszi, sprawled out on the couch like a drunken fool, limbs hanging in odd angles.
Amica crossed her arms. “You look ridiculous.”
Quaszi lifted her head, eyes hazy, lips curled into a lazy grin. “And yet, here I am, suffering while you bask in your humanity.”
Amica wasn’t in the mood for theatrics. She turned toward the cabinet, pulled out a small bottle, and shook it lightly. The rattling sound was enough to make Quaszi jolt up like a frightened cat.
“No,” Quaszi said immediately, inching backward.
“Yes,” Amica countered, stepping closer.
Quaszi’s entire demeanor changed. She pressed herself against the couch, feigning innocence.
“Amica, my dearest, sweetest friend, surely there’s another way—”
“Drink. This.” Amica cut her off, shaking the bottle again.
Quaszi wrinkled her nose. “It tastes like absolute garbage.”
“Oh? And suffering for the next few days is a better option?”
“I’d rather face the gates of hell.”
“You might as well be there already.” Amica arched an eyebrow. “Or do you prefer me calling in a professional?”
Quaszi gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t.”
Amica smirked. “Try me.”
Quaszi’s lips trembled in betrayal. She grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest, shaking her head like a toddler refusing medicine.
“I’ll scream,” Quaszi warned.
“I’ll record it.”
“I’ll throw up.”
“I’ll make you clean it.”
Quaszi groaned loudly, slumping onto the couch as if the world was truly against her. “You are the cruelest person I have ever met.”
Amica held out the suppressant. “Flattery won’t get you out of this.”
Quaszi sniffled. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? The suffering? The agony? The sheer—”
Amica grabbed her wrist and shoved the pill into her hand. “I don’t. But I do know you’re not dragging me into your misery.”
Quaszi eyed the pill like it was poison. “This is abuse.”
“This is survival.”
With a long, painful groan, Quaszi finally tossed the pill into her mouth and downed it with water. The moment she swallowed, she flopped dramatically onto the couch. “I feel my soul leaving my body.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll finally rest in peace.”
Quaszi glared at her before closing her eyes. Within minutes, the suppressant worked its magic, and she was out like a light.
Amica exhaled in relief. Peace, at last.
She made her way to the dining table, finally allowing herself to relax. Dinner was quiet—just how she liked it. Her laptop sat to her left, her phone to her right, playing a mukbang video. It was her way of unwinding after a long day.
But her peace was short-lived.
Her phone rang. The sound was sharp and unexpected, making her pause mid-bite. She glanced at the screen.
Mr. Fenrir.
Her brows furrowed. That was... odd. He never called unless it was urgent.
With a wary sigh, she answered. “Sir?”
Silence.
Amica blinked, pulling the phone away slightly to check the screen. The call was still active.
She put it back to her ear. “Sir? Are you okay?”
A low, pained groan came from the other end. It was faint, but enough to send a shiver down her spine. The breathing was labored, uneven. It was the kind of sound someone made when they were barely holding themselves together.
Her grip on the phone tightened. “Sir?” she tried again, her voice laced with genuine concern.
Another breath. This one sharper. Then a deep inhale as if he was gathering himself.
“Be early tomorrow,” his voice finally came through. It was huskier than usual, strained, like it was taking every ounce of effort to form those words.
Amica’s heart skipped a beat. “Sir, are you—”
Click.
The line went dead.
She sat frozen, staring at her phone like it had personally betrayed her. Her neck prickled with unease. There was something off about his voice—it wasn’t his usual commanding tone. It was... raw. Almost vulnerable.
And attractive.
She slapped a hand over her face. “No. Unethical, Amica.”
But the unease didn’t fade. Her mind raced with possibilities. Was he drunk? Injured? Or worse? Mr. Fenrir never acted out of sorts. He was always composed, always in control.
She bit her lip, debating whether to call back. But what would she even say? “Hey, boss, you sounded sexy and half-dead. Care to elaborate?”
She groaned, tossing her phone onto the table. “Tsk. Maybe he’s just crazy.”
Still, her eyes lingered on the screen.
Tomorrow was her day off.
Be early tomorrow.
Something wasn’t right.
Deciding not to dwell on it—at least for now—she resumed eating. Whatever madness awaited her tomorrow, she’d deal with it when the time came.
- Writer
