Zarc was tired. He could still feel the bags under his eyes, from living a life that let him know that he wasn't wanted there. It was a feeling he'd known all too well, even from birth—he could still hear the insults and the lectures, even now...
He forced the thought from his mind. No. He didn't want to remember, not this late at night. Not when... not when the alternative was having the landlord / tournament head / the Professor's daughter in his apartment, demanding to know why he was disrupting the other guests' lives.
It was just his luck that he'd run away from home and found himself just as lost as he'd been before as a child. As if Zarc wasn't still a child himself. He was barely sixteen years old, but he'd oh-so-effortlessly lied to the registration's face.
Of course he was nineteen, he'd said. He was lucky he looked older than he really was, or else he'd have been in serious trouble by now.
Zarc's pulse raced and thrummed against his throat. He could feel it when he took a breath, and of course, he could feel it when he closed his eyes. It was always there, in the humming of his mind, slowly unnerving him with its rhythm.
Briefly—in a rather morbid thought—he wondered when it would stop.
If he'd been a shy two years younger, perhaps it would have made his stomach unsettled and he'd be sitting here, face in his palms, wondering what he'd been doing wrong.
But not today.
Zarc had been dead to the world for a long time now, he supposed. Even the thought of death was beginning to bore him. Odd-Eyes whispered his concern through his card, but he soothed his dragon with a swift sentence—I'm fine.
Not that either of them believed it.