AB Chapter 2: My Master Has Come Knocking
Michel didn’t know how he managed to struggle up from the bed.
His entire body ached, soaked in smelly sweat and grime.
The moment he opened his eyes, the pain knocked him back down again.
Did I drink last night?
Or did someone break in while I was sleeping and beat me up so badly I lost my memory? Otherwise, why would my body hurt this much?
A painful, broken whimper rose in his throat, his breath reeking of blood. He touched his face—dried blood had smeared into a slick, tight membrane, stinging his skin. That only confirmed Michel’s suspicion: someone must’ve broken in and fought him.
I should report this to the police…
But when Michel tried to move, he gasped in pain.
“Oh… damn it…”
Giving up after the failed attempt, the pitiful young man lay there, limbs stretched out and eyes unfocused, all the way into the afternoon. When his body finally stopped throbbing and felt a bit better, Michel let out a breath and forced himself to get up. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he reached for his phone with his long arms and legs, glanced around, then staggered into the bathroom and locked the door.
“The room wasn’t ransacked, and everything’s still in its place. My body doesn’t have any cuts or obvious injuries either—”
Sitting on the toilet, Michel turned on his phone. The screen read: Sunday, 2:50 PM.
Michel: “…” I remember falling asleep on Friday.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, Michel suddenly stood up and yanked his shirt off! Then he pulled off his pants, now down to just his underwear, and began checking his body more thoroughly.
Aunt Jasmine had mentioned recently that there had been several cases of organ theft.
Criminal gangs would use high-tech medical devices to anesthetize their victims, remove their organs, and then place a portable healing machine on them. The victims would regain consciousness and remain alive for half a day—long enough to find their phones and call the police for help.
The targets were usually healthy, clean-living young people who lived alone.
Cold sweat formed on Michel’s forehead, dread crawling down his spine.
He carefully ran his fingers over his lower back and shoulder blades, then let out a huge sigh of relief.
There were no surgical scars or stitches on his body.
“Maybe it was a blood sugar crash that made me pass out.”
I hadn’t eaten in a long time, just drank water. I wasn’t feeling great before I fell asleep, so maybe it was a warning sign—Michel tried to reassure himself.
His tightly clenched heart slowly eased, but a dull soreness still radiated through his flesh and bones.
I should go to the hospital. Passing out alone in the apartment is terrifying. If something really happened, Aunt Jasmine would be so worried.
Frustrated, Michel raised his hand to rake through his hair. But the moment he did, something snapped—it wasn’t clear if he broke some strands or something else, but suddenly his head felt like it had exploded! The pain was so intense he almost collapsed to his knees.
Cold sweat oozed out, sticky against his skin, making it feel like his flesh was about to tear apart.
It was like a rust-covered steel nail had been hammered into his brain!
“Ugh—what the hell—”
Beads of sweat rolled down his pale, sunlight-starved skin.
Screaming and howling voices echoed in his mind.
Michel’s dark, lifeless eyes unintentionally locked onto the bathtub. Moved by some strange impulse (he truly didn’t know what he was thinking at the time), he reached out and turned on the bathtub faucet.
As the transparent, warm water slowly filled the tub, Michel could almost hear someone urging him, "Get in, get in!"
Following his instincts, still fully clothed in his underwear, he climbed stiffly into the bathtub.
The moment the water enveloped him, the world felt at peace…
Gripping both sides of the tub tightly, Michel tilted his head back and let out a small sigh of pleasure.
So strange.
So, so strange.
But—I'll go to the hospital after I finish this bath.
Curled up in the tub, the black-haired young man cautiously hugged himself. Despite the lack of color in his face, he looked content.
That odd illusion of "I'm just a little flower" came back again.
“Ring, ring-ring-ring, ring-ring—”
The sound of the phone woke the person in the bathtub.
The once warm water had turned cold. With a sluggish brain, the dazed young man turned his head and saw the innocent phone lying on the floor in front of the toilet.
“Uh… What did I do?!”
“Damn it, it’s happening again!”
Michel snapped out of the bizarre illusion. He quickly scooped some cold water to wash his face, climbed out of the bathtub, wrapped his shivering body in a towel from the rack, picked up the wet phone with dripping hands, and pressed the answer button.
“Hello?”
“Hello? Michel, you still have the nerve to say hello? Why didn’t you show up to class? If I hadn’t called in sick for you, you’d be dead meat, you hear me?!”
A loud, chattering voice burst out of the phone, full of health and energy.
Sunshine and restlessness, almost radiating through the phone to Michel’s face.
It was Benny.
His good friend, and Aunt Jasmine’s nephew.
Benny was practically another Aunt Jasmine—both were equally warm-hearted.
“I got sick and passed out at home for two days. If you hadn’t called, I might still be soaking in the tub. Maybe I should see a psychiatrist. Something’s not right.”
Michel’s expression relaxed. He tilted his head, holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder, grabbed another towel to dry his dripping hair and face, and stood in front of the mirror to brush his teeth.
He planned to head to the hospital later—with his pitiful savings.
“What? You passed out for two days?!”
Benny nearly shouted. People waiting for the bus next to him stared, but he didn’t care. He immediately abandoned his original plans and hailed a cab.
“Stay put, I’m coming over right now—immediately! Find somewhere soft to lie down, and don’t hang up until I ring your doorbell. Oh my God, you are alive, right?”
Michel chuckled at Benny’s cautious tone.
“Of course I’m alive. No need to panic. I’ll curl up on the sofa and wait for you to rescue me. But I am hanging up. I need to brush my teeth.”
Benny let out a breath. “You scared me to death. Fine. Want me to bring you something to eat from downstairs?”
“Mhm, sure. And—don’t tell Aunt Molly about this.”
“Uh…”
“Please, Benny.”
“Alright… I hope she doesn’t find out.” Or Aunt Molly will beat him for helping cover it up!
The call ended.
Thinking of Benny’s theatrical way of talking, Michel shook his head with a smile, set the phone on the sink, and brushed his teeth.
He glanced up, out of habit.
Then he froze, toothbrush in mouth, foam everywhere.
After three seconds of silence, he reached up and wiped at the smudged, water-streaked mirror.
Nothing changed. The mirror truthfully reflected a pale, malnourished young man with black hair and eyes—along with a tiny red flower sprouting from the top of his head.
Michel: “???”
A thin stem, with a thumb-sized red blossom, drooping like a silly cowlick.
It looked just like the fake plastic bean sprout hair clips that the five-year-old girl next door wore during pretend play.
Except his looked too real. So real it might actually be a real flower.
With a blank face, Michel touched it. Then tugged on it. It felt real.
Yep, it was real.
There’s a flower growing out of my head.
A dainty little red flower, no less. Ha ha.
Michel pulled a half-smile at the mirror. “Has the world gone mad?” Are people sprouting plants now?
What’s next—mushrooms? Grow-your-own food? Fully self-sufficient?
What the fuck!!!
“Stay calm, Michel, stay calm… This is a hallucination, yeah. Definitely a hallucination. I need a doctor. I’ll go right now.”
Convinced he wasn’t dreaming and still might save himself, Michel hastily cleaned up. Outside, car horns blared, the neighbor’s noisy arguing leaked through the walls, and the shrill yelling from someone’s TV drama pierced the air.
A foul garbage smell drifted in through the window cracks…
All the world’s noise started digging into his brain again.
Michel turned pale and gagged. His nerves tightened—just like every time his condition flared up.
Unseen to him, the little flower on his head shivered in pain. Its petals wilted, curling weakly.
This environment wasn’t suitable for its growth.
It had bloomed too late.
It hadn’t received the care it needed.
It should have been pampered by a strong, nurturing carnivorous type, to be gently coddled and protected. Unfortunately, its host didn’t know that.
Michel grabbed his keys from the entryway shelf, threw on a down jacket and scarf, pulled on boots—completely forgetting to cover the flower on his head.
He opened the door in a daze.
And—bang!
Michel slammed into a wall and stumbled back several steps, hitting the sofa before regaining balance.
He looked up blankly at the doorway—and saw a tall, dark yellow figure. So tall that his door frame only reached the guy’s chin.
Maybe because of the bump, the being—wearing a bumblebee-like futuristic armored suit that looked nothing like anything on Earth—leaned in and peeked his head under the door frame, stepping fully into Michel’s entryway.
An alien resident?!
Michel felt like an idiot.
Mouth agape, eyes bulging, neck craning until it almost snapped, he stared at this man—no, male—tough, handsome face… and the two cute, cartoonish round antennae on his sandy-yellow short hair.
The “bumblebee” was silent, his eyes locked intensely on the little red flower on Michel’s head.
The gaze was so scorching it felt like his scalp might ignite!
Gulp.
Michel croaked, “You…?” What are you?
Do you know that, under the Interstellar Union Law, trespassing into another species’ home is illegal? I could call NYPD and have you arrested. But his eyes flicked over the being’s rock-solid armor and fist the size of a bowling ball, and he wisely swallowed those words.
“I am Simon.”
The stranger’s Mandarin was clumsy but deep and steady.
Even as he spoke, the bizarre “bumblebee” didn’t look away from the flower.
“Uh… Mr. Simon, are you… lost?”
Michel asked cautiously, trying to find something nearby he could use as a weapon.
“No.” The other shook his head. “I came for you.”
Michel: “…”
To Michel’s horror, the giant approached and suddenly grabbed him—by the shoulders and waist. His hands were so large they could cup Michel’s whole head!
Then he started pulling at his own clothing.
“What are you doing?! Stop—HELP! SOMEBODY HELP—!”
Michel struggled, kicking at the guy’s knees and stomach, but the armor (or whatever it was) was way too solid. His efforts were laughable.
During the struggle, his thick winter coat was torn open, feathers flew everywhere, clothes were shredded into rags.
Simon dragged Michel to a corner of the living room, knocking over everything in their path with a crashing racket.
Finally, in a twisted embrace, they stood before the full-length mirror.
The terrifying bumblebee grabbed his head and made him look at the mirror. With the other hand, he pulled back the ripped clothing, tugged down his waistband.
Cold air raised goosebumps.
On Michel’s lower back, pale blue letters were revealed.
“You are the rare flower seed I spent all my savings on twenty years ago.”
His fingertip traced the last line of text, one word at a time:
“You are… my… private property.”
Michel: “…”
Bumblebee man: “I am Simon.”
Michel: “…”
He took it back. It’s not the world that’s crazy—it’s him.
[Author’s Note – Little Theater]
Michel: I'm private property. Later, my owner came looking for me.
Simon: You. Mine. Spent all my savings to buy. (antennae droop sadly)
[If you’re curious what the “gong” (top) looks like with his antennae, check the cover—it’s the cute kind, round and droopy, that can sense things and show emotions, like a puppy’s tail.]
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