Chapter 134: Drunken and (unjustified) rage
Blake stared for a second before suddenly shooting to his feet.
"Zlatan?!"
The chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"What the hell is wrong?!"
He had one hand pressed against his throat, his breathing sounding wrong. His face had gone pale beneath a rapidly spreading flush, but his eyes weren’t particularly fazed.
Blake rushed around the table.
"Help?! Somebody help!"
The restaurant immediately erupted into motion.
Several waiters abandoned their stations and hurried over. Customers began turning in their seats. One waiter was already reaching for his phone while another knelt beside Zlatan.
"What happened?"
"I don’t know, he just fell down out of nowhere!"
Blake looked from one employee to another.
"Do you think this is a heart attack? Or maybe he’s sick? What is this?"
No one had an answer.
Zlatan doubled over, coughing violently. His breathing grew harsher by the second, each inhale producing a faint wheezing sound.
Red patches had begun spreading along his neck, climbing toward his jaw.
The waiter on the phone immediately requested an ambulance.
"Yes, uh, he’s a male in his early twenties. He has severe breathing difficulties and his condition w-worsening rapidly...!"
A second waiter sprinted away to retrieve the restaurant’s first aid kit.
The atmosphere transformed from concern to genuine fear, even the other costumers gathered around.
"Oh dear..."
"Maybe he chocked on something..."
"It could be an illness he didn’t know about..."
Meanwhile, Blake was becoming visibly frantic.
"So, can you tell what happened?"
The nearest waiter shook his head.
"We don’t know, sir."
The first aid kit arrived moments later. The waiter speaking with emergency services switched the call to speaker and carefully followed every instruction.
"Is he conscious?"
"Yes."
"Any chest pain?"
"That, I don’t know, he can’t speak."
"Any visible injuries?"
"No? I don’t see any!"
The operator continued asking questions.
The waiter looked carefully at Zlatan.
"His skin is turning red."
"Is there any swelling around the lips, tongue, or throat?"
The waiter paused, then, his expression changed.
"A little, yes."
The questions continued.
Had he eaten recently? Was he breathing normally before? Had he mentioned any medical conditions?
The operator’s voice suddenly became more urgent.
"Check what he consumed."
The waiter looked toward the table, with the untouched dishes on top.
The shrimp.
The potatoes.
The tomatoes.
The petals decorating the plate.
Slowly, the pieces began coming together, and the waiter swallowed.
"Oh God..."
"What is it?" Blake demanded.
The employee looked between Zlatan and the operator.
"The dispatcher thinks this may be a severe allergic reaction."
The realization hit the staff all at once.
One waiter immediately searched the first aid kit, but there was nothing useful in it.
Another checked the emergency cabinet, but they really didn’t have an adrenaline autoinjector.
Still, the operator asked the question anyway.
"Do you have epinephrine available?"
"No."
A terrible silence followed.
"Then keep monitoring him. The ambulance is almost there."
The sirens became audible less than a minute later.
The ambulance crew rushed inside carrying equipment bags. One paramedic immediately dropped to his knees beside Zlatan while another began rapid assessment.
Blood pressure.
Pulse.
Oxygen saturation.
Airway.
Questions were rapidly fired back and forth.
"How long ago did symptoms start?"
"About seven minutes."
"What did he eat first?"
"...we aren’t fully sure."
"Any known allergies?"
"No, the boy didn’t mention anything of the sort..."
An oxygen mask was secured over Zlatan’s face. Medication was prepared immediately. One paramedic administered emergency treatment while another continuously monitored his breathing.
For several terrifying moments, nobody in the restaurant spoke.
The paramedics worked right there on the floor.
Their urgency alone was enough to make everyone understand how serious the situation truly was.
Gradually, Zlatan’s breathing began stabilizing.
The lead paramedic finally released a long breath.
"We’re taking him to the hospital."
Blake stood nearby, completely stunned.
’An allergic reaction? But to what?’
His gaze drifted toward the table.
Then he walked over.
The plates sat exactly where they had been left, and so, his eyes immediately started searching through the food.
Tomatoes.
Potatoes.
Sauce.
Anything.
Anything at all.
But the answer was obvious.
The only thing Zlatan had actually eaten was the shrimp.
Blake stared at it.
The paramedics approached him shortly afterward.
"Are you a friend?"
"Yeah..."
"Did he mention any allergies?"
"No, this is my first time out with him."
"Any medications?"
"I don’t know that, either."
"Any prior reactions?"
Blake shook his head, his answers coming out almost automatically.
The paramedic nodded thoughtfully.
"If this is what we think it is, there’s a decent chance he’s reacted to something before. Sometimes earlier reactions aren’t severe enough for people to recognize them."
"So... shrimp?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Sometimes another allergy can worsen a future reaction. The hospital will have to determine that."
Blake didn’t answer.
His eyes had settled on the flowers he brought for him.
His jaw tightened.
Eventually, Zlatan was loaded into the ambulance and taken away.
The restaurant slowly returned to life.
The waiters cleaned the area. Customers resumed talking in hushed voices.
One of the employees cautiously approached Blake.
"Sir... if you’d still like dinner, everything is on the house."
For a moment, Blake simply looked at him, then, he smiled faintly.
"You guys can eat it, we barely touched anything anyway."
The smile lingered for barely a second before disappearing.
Then Blake turned and walked away.
He walked for hours.
Through crowded streets.
Past restaurants.
Past bars.
Past people enjoying ordinary evenings.
The city lights gradually grew dimmer as midnight approached.
Yet his thoughts never settled.
Then the familiar blue screen appeared before him.
[ Mission Failed ]
[ Penalty: 3 Hours of Stats Cooldown for 1 Month ]
Blake stopped walking.
For several seconds he simply stared at it, then, he covered his face.
A long, exhausted sigh escaped him.
His teeth sank into his lower lip.
He had been too ambitious.
Hadn’t he?
Eventually, exhaustion won.
A small drinking place caught his attention.
Without thinking much about it, he walked inside and sat down.
"Six."
The bartender raised an eyebrow.
"Six?"
"Yeah."
A few minutes later, the bottles were lined up before him.
The first disappeared quickly.
The second followed.
Then the third.
By the fourth, anger had begun replacing shock.
"Myles, that lying son of a bitch!"
Blake gripped one bottle tightly.
’Favorite foods, hobbies, interests, everything!How much of it is actual bullshit?’
Probably all of it.
He laughed bitterly.
The moment he’d asked for Zlatan’s number, the entire mission had practically been sabotaged.
Myles had handed him bad information and sent him marching straight toward disaster.
If Blake had known, if he’d known, he would’ve tried literally anything else with anyone else.
His hand tightened around the bottle until his knuckles whitened.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.
His shoulders were tense.
His jaw hurt from clenching.
His foot bounced relentlessly beneath the table.
Then he slammed his palm against the wood.
The sound echoed through the room.
"Fuck!"
Several patrons glanced over.
’My damn stats! How am I supposed to infiltrate anything now? How am I supposed to accomplish anything?’
Three hours of cooldown every day for an entire month.
An entire month.
Time he didn’t have.
Time this world didn’t have.
What if things got worse?
What if six months passed?
What if everything disappeared before he figured out a solution?
The thought made his chest ache.
A weak sniffle escaped him.
Then another.
Eventually, Blake lowered his head onto the table.
His shoulders shook.
His tears fell quietly.
A while later, he pulled out his phone.
Myles.
He pressed call.
The line connected.
"Blake—"
"I’ll never forgive you for this!"
"Where are you?"
Blake hung up.
For a moment, guilt surfaced.
Because honestly, it wasn’t entirely Myles’ fault.
He had created this ridiculous plan and decided to execute it.
Maybe it would’ve failed regardless and tonight would’ve been a disaster no matter what information he’d been given.
But still...
"Fuck."
He drank again.
He could’ve done this, he knew he could’ve, somehow.
So why couldn’t he ever do anything right?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Eventually he staggered to his feet.
Paying was difficult enough.
Walking was worse.
The waiter watched him with increasing concern.
"Sir... do you need help getting an Uber?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
The waiter awkwardly pointed toward Blake’s phone.
"It’s just... you’ve been getting a lot of calls."
The ringtone immediately sounded again.
It was loud and persistent.
Blake squinted at the screen, then hiccuped.
"You could call that my ex! He behaved like a bastard. So who cares?"
With that, Blake stumbled outside.
A few steps later, he simply sat down on the pavement directly across from the drinking place.
His eyes closed.
Darkness came quickly.
Then he was dreaming.
He watched from somewhere distant.
Not through his own eyes.
He was standing apart, observing.
Watching himself.
Watching Myles.
The other man gently rested his hands on Blake’s shoulders.
There was something strangely familiar about the gesture.
Then Myles spoke.
"I know your heartbeat, Blake."
His voice was quiet.
"I know who you want."
The dream shattered.
Blake jolted awake as someone lifted him from the ground.
"What the hell?!"
He immediately struggled.
"Let go!"
The world spun.
"Who’s the bastard kidnapping me?!"
His captor spoke with a familiar voice.
"Blake."
Everything froze, and Blake looked up.
Myles.
For several seconds he simply stared.
’Am I still dreaming?’
His drunken frown deepened and then, he pointed directly at him.
"I’ll never speak to you again!"
