Nicholas had learned, a long time ago, that the hardest part of pretending to be human wasn't the hunger. It was everything else. The breathing, the blinking, the constant, unconscious movement people made as if stillness itself was unnatural.
They shifted their weight, stretched their fingers, rolled their shoulders, reacting to the smallest changes in their environment without thinking about it. Their bodies were never quiet, never fully at rest, always responding to something around them.
He had studied those habits carefully, repeating them until they felt familiar, even if they never quite became instinct. Every movement still required intention. Every reaction had to be measured just enough to pass.
The town helped. It was smaller than the others he had stayed in, quieter during the day, almost forgettable in the way it existed. At night, it softened. The lights dimmed, the streets filled just enough, and people moved without urgency. Their voices were lower, their presence less demanding. It made it easier to exist there.
His apartment reflected that same intention. It was close to the university, tucked between a laundromat and a narrow alley that rarely caught direct light. Simple and functional, just enough to look lived in. He kept it stocked, though not with anything he enjoyed.
Human food never quite registered. Flavors flattened into something indistinct no matter how varied they were supposed to be. He had learned how to react—what to say, when to nod—but enjoyment remained something he imitated rather than felt.
Chips came closest. Not for the taste, but for the texture—the crispness, the resistance, something real enough to notice.
Garlic, he avoided entirely. Not out of superstition, but because his body rejected it outright. It burned, irritated, lingered longer than it should. Inconvenient.
The sun didn't destroy him either, despite what stories claimed. But it weakened him, dulled his senses, and left his skin flushed in a way that felt wrong, too noticeable. So he avoided it when he could.
By the time he stepped into the university's gym, the shift was immediate.Sound layered over itself—shoes against polished wood, the hollow impact of the ball, voices overlapping in easy familiarity. For a moment, it pressed in too much. He moved anyway. He walked in like he belonged, because now, he did.
A few players glanced his way. Some nodded while others called out casually before turning back to their drills.
"Seventeen."
Nicholas turned as Oliver jogged over, already energized.
"You're early," Oliver said, stretching his arms overhead.
"I'm on time."
"That's early for most of us." Oliver laughed, glancing toward the center of the volleyball court. "Coach's about to start."
Nicholas adjusted the hem of his jersey, the number printed clean on both the front and back. A role. A place within something structured.
Seventeen.
"Alright, bring it in!"
The call cut across the gym, and the team gathered quickly.
Coach Raf stood at the front, steady and composed, his presence grounded without needing to raise his voice.
"First day back," he said, gaze sweeping across the team. "We're not easing into anything. Most of you already earned your spot. That part's done."
He let the words settle before continuing.
"What's not decided is who starts."
The shift in the group was immediate.
"You want to play this season, you prove it here. Every drill, every scrimmage. I'm watching everything."
He stepped back slightly. "Warm up. Angelo."
The team captain stepped forward with an easy confidence, clapping once as he smiled at the group.
"You heard him. No coasting," he said, tone light but clear. "If you mess up, fix it next play. If you're tired, play through it."
There was nothing forced about him. People responded without hesitation, the tension in the gym easing just enough to make movement feel natural again.
Nicholas noticed that and, without meaning to, the way Angelo moved through it.
The drills began, and he fell into rhythm quickly, movements controlled and precise.
Still, his attention drifted.
Not to the court as a whole—but to Angelo.
The way he stepped into plays. The looseness in his shoulders. The precision of his hands when he set the ball, quick and clean, no hesitation in the movement.
Nicholas looked away first.
"Seventeen."
He turned.
Angelo stood a few steps away, a ball resting easily in his hand, expression relaxed but observant.
"You're holding back," he said, like it was obvious.
Nicholas met his gaze. "Am I?"
Angelo smiled slightly. "Yeah."
There was no accusation in it, only certainty. He tossed the ball once, then set it cleanly into the air.
"Again," Angelo said. "Don't think too much."
Nicholas moved.
The timing came easily. He stepped in, jumped, and hit but held back just enough to keep it controlled.
The ball landed in.
Angelo caught the return, already watching him.
"Still holding back."
Nicholas said nothing.
Angelo stepped closer this time, not crossing into his space, but near enough to adjust.
"Earlier," he said, lifting a hand briefly toward Nicholas's shoulder—hovering, then making quick contact as he nudged his position. "You're late on the approach."
The touch was light.Nicholas stilled for a fraction of a second, his focus shifting before he pulled it back into place.
"Again."
He set the ball.
This time, Nicholas didn't hold back as much. The jump came higher, the motion cleaner, and the strike was sharper.
The ball hit the floor before anyone could react, the sound echoing across the gym.
A whistle followed. Voices reacted from the side.
Angelo walked toward him, shaking his head slightly with a quiet laugh.
"See?" he said. "That wasn't so hard."
He was close now. Close enough that Nicholas could still feel the earlier contact, faint but persistent, like his body hadn't fully let it go.
"Name?" Angelo asked.
"…Nicholas."
"Nicholas," Angelo repeated, as if committing it to memory.
Then he smiled. "I'm Angelo. Captain."
"I know."
That earned a quiet laugh.
"Good. Makes things easier."
Nicholas didn't respond because nothing about this felt easy.
By the end of practice, the gym softened into something slower. Bodies rested, voices loosened, laughter came easier. Nicholas remained at the edges, observant, but not entirely unaffected by the shift around him.
His attention drifted more than it should have. Often, it returned to Angelo, not just the way he moved between teammates, but the ease of it. The lack of hesitation and the way contact didn't seem to mean anything to him.
Nicholas watched longer than he should have.
Later, when he stepped outside, the night met him in a way that felt familiar again.
Cooler. Quieter.
The town settled into its slower rhythm, lights softening, movement less urgent. He walked without direction, observing more than moving, letting the environment pass through him.
A few streets down, the milk tea shop waited, already part of his routine. The sign above the door read "Nocturne Tea House", dimly lit, easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. Inside, the air was cool, sweet with sugar and steeped tea.
"Wintermelon," he said when it was his turn. "Salty cream. Add pearls."
He stepped aside to wait.
It didn't matter what he ordered. The flavors would blur the same, but the cold and the texture stayed.
When his drink was ready, he stepped outside and took a sip, registering the chill first, then the faint sweetness, and finally the pearls—soft, chewy, resistant enough to feel real.
He walked home after, the night unchanged, the same quiet rhythm surrounding him.
But something had shifted.
Not in the city.
In him.