Chapter Summary: Hermann survives his deadly encounter, but not unscathed. With Hannibal Chau, he faces what Newt has become and must take the man's fate into his hands.
More coughing—raw and tearing—hooked him from the hallway. Hermann rounded the corner just as Chau’s phone skittered across the floor. The man had folded in half, one hand clamped to his throat.
"Are you—oh, scheiße…”
He halted in the entryway, clutching the hems of his robe like a security blanket. “Do you, er… n-need help?”
Chau deterred him with a shake of the head, fishing an aquamarine inhaler from one of his numerous pockets. Two hard pulls. It glowed with each inhale.
He hunched, dragging breath through grit; the rasp began to ease, but only barely.
"Gh… kkghh…"
Hermann recognised the device instantly: one of the few sanctioned treatments for Kaiju bloodmist inhalation. A reprieve, not a cure.
Most who carried one didn’t live long. It only stretched the slow drowning.
Colour didn’t return to Chau’s face, but the swagger did. He tipped his head, wet his lips from the black flask, and flashed a crooked grin.
"Nice to have someone not hoping I'll croak, for a change,” said Chau hoarsely. “But I'm not due for my pine overcoat just yet. Heh…"
Hermann’s eyes narrowed—a mix of pity and exasperation. “I wouldn’t say you’re far off. Why go to such trouble for Newton and myself when you’re…?”
A bark of laughter cut him off. “I like being king of the hill, doc.” Gleam of teeth, glint of rings. “And I plan to reign ‘til Charon ferries my ass over the Styx.”
A hollow sigh pushed through Hermann’s nose. “It sounds a rather meaningless throne.”
“I live for the now,” Chau shrugged, unbothered. “Anything can happen! Life's too short to be a pussy. You gotta live a little.”
The line struck a nerve.
where have I heard that before?
Hermann’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing, and kept his distance.
“Hey, your boyfriend seemed to agree,” crowed the other.
Trying not to rise to the bait, Hermann turned slightly, knuckle pressed to his mouth. “Like I said, he isn’t—and it’s none of your business. We’re not…”
“That right?” purred Chau, perfectly pleased with himself. “Tongues down each other’s throats at a commie bar doesn't count?”
Heat rose—folding into the old, curdled shame that had started this whole ruin. Hermann fastened his robe tighter, like it would deflect being seen.
When he finally spoke, his tone was ironed flat.
“Apparently not.”
He didn’t turn. Didn’t rise. The muscle beneath his eye jumped, but his posture held.
“Seriously? Doc, you’re stupid as hell.” Chau grinned with a tap of the finger square in the centre of Hermann’s forehead. His sunglasses stood out like the predatory gaze of a wild animal.
Hermann swiped the intrusion away with the back of his hand just as two hard knocks rattled the front door.