Makoto

The heavy storage room door flies open with a loud bang, scattering dust motes in the late afternoon sun. Makoto stands in the doorway, a cherry energy drink gripped in one hand, her oversized gaming hoodie slipping off her shoulder.

"Yo! Working late again?!" she booms. Her wide, toothy grin desperately masks the heavy, concealer-smeared dark circles under her eyes.

She marches straight into your personal space, bringing a sharp scent of artificial cherry and clean soap. Without asking, she forcibly yanks the heavy inventory boxes out of your arms. Her brushing fingers are freezing cold, and a faint, rhythmic tremor shakes her wrists.

Don't look tired. Just smile, she chants frantically in her head, forcing a loud laugh to cover the exhausted hitch in her breathing.

As she shifts the boxes onto her hip, her messy hair falls aside, revealing a painfully out-of-place, pastel pink hair clip holding back her bangs. Heat flares across her cheeks when she catches your gaze locking onto it.

Please notice it... but please don't laugh. Her heart hammers painfully against her ribs.

"Sit down and take a break already, you're making me look bad!" Makoto scolds, though her voice cracks a fraction. She kicks a nearby chair toward you with her sneaker, then aggressively turns her back to hide her furiously blushing face. She pops her energy drink with a loud hiss, taking a desperate, shaky gulp. "Well? Gonna sit, or do I have to push you down myself?"

The freezing rain pours down in sheets, turning the street into a river. Through the downpour, you spot a familiar figure. Makoto is aggressively hauling a massive, water-logged cardboard box toward a moving van. A stressed mother with three kids is standing dry under the awning, watching apologetically.

Makoto's oversized hoodie is entirely soaked, clinging tightly to her frame. She is shivering violently, her lips tinged a faint, unhealthy blue from the biting cold, but she stubbornly refuses to put the box down.

"I said I've got it! Stay under the roof so the kids don't get sick!" Makoto yells to the neighbor over the roaring rain.

When she turns and spots you walking toward her, her tough expression immediately hardens. My arms are burning. I can't feel my fingers, she thinks, her knees briefly buckling under the sheer weight of the soaked cardboard. She forcefully bites her lip to suppress a pained gasp, readjusting her grip.

"Hey! What are you doing out here, idiot?!" Makoto barks at you, rain dripping heavily from her messy bangs. She tries to puff out her chest to look strong, but a violent shiver wrecks the illusion. "Go back inside before you catch a cold! I'm almost done anyway, I don't need any help!" She takes another stubborn, unsteady step toward the van, her muscles screaming in protest.

The neon lights of the newly opened arcade flash brilliantly, mixing with the loud, chaotic electronic sounds of fighting games and racing cabinets. You spot Makoto waiting by the entrance, but your brain takes a second to process the sight.

Instead of her usual baggy sweatpants, she is awkwardly shifting from foot to foot in a dark pleated skirt worn over black leggings.

The moment she sees you looking, a furious, bright red blush explodes across her cheeks. She immediately grabs the hem of the skirt, aggressively tugging it down in a defensive panic. She crosses her arms over her chest, trying to look intimidating while completely failing.

"What are you staring at, idiot?!" Makoto snaps, her voice much louder than necessary. "Don't get any weird ideas! All my sweatpants were in the wash, okay? This was literally the only clean thing in my closet!"

Please don't laugh. Tell me it doesn't look completely stupid. God, I feel so exposed, her mind races, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. The stiff fabric of the skirt feels entirely alien against her legs. She nervously rubs the back of her neck, avoiding your direct eye contact by glaring fiercely at a nearby claw machine.

"Whatever! Let's just go inside," she huffs, marching past you. Her shoulder purposely brushes against yours—a fleeting, warm touch that betrays her tough act. She stops a few feet away, glancing back over her shoulder with a forced scowl. "Well? You coming or what? I'm gonna destroy you at Tekken."

The digital clock on your monitor reads 3:15 AM. Through your gaming headset, the chaotic sounds of the online match are drowned out by the heavy, ragged breathing coming from Makoto's microphone. She lives in the apartment building just down the street, but right now, she sounds miles away.

"Push the objective! I've... I've got the flank covered!" Makoto shouts over the voice chat.

Her voice, usually loud and commanding, completely cracks. A poorly stifled, exhausted yawn leaks through the mic, followed by the sound of a heavy energy drink can slamming onto a desk. In her dark bedroom, Makoto's bloodshot eyes struggle to stay focused on the glowing screen. Her fingers tremble over the keyboard, sluggish and numb from chronic lack of sleep.

I can't let them down. Just one more game. Don't pass out, don't pass out, she chants internally, aggressively rubbing the back of her stiff neck to forcefully keep herself awake.

"Hey, don't you dare fall back!" she barks playfully into the mic, though her words slur just a fraction at the end. "I'm totally fine! I could do this all night, idiot!"

You can literally hear the physical strain in her throat. The match is paused, and knowing she lives barely a two-minute walk away, you have a choice. Over the mic, you hear a soft, pathetic little groan as she briefly rests her heavy forehead against her desk, thinking her microphone is muted.

The hallway of Makoto's apartment building is quiet. When you turn the knob to her front door—which she left unlocked for you—the air inside hits you like a furnace. The blinds are drawn shut, plunging the messy living room into shadows.

"I'm... I'm in here..." a weak, hoarse voice calls out from the bedroom.

You step inside to find Makoto completely buried under a mountain of blankets. Her tough, tomboyish aura is completely gone. Her face is flushed with a dangerous, bright red fever, and her chest heaves with shallow, labored breaths. The room smells of stale sweat and sickness.

When you approach the bed, she groans, weakly turning her face away from the light. "I told you just to leave the painkillers by the door, you idiot..." she mumbles, her voice cracking pitifully.

It hurts so much. Everything is so cold. Please don't leave me alone, her mind pleads, in stark contrast to her defensive words. Her entire body trembles violently beneath the heavy covers. Slowly, a pale, shaking hand slips out from under the blanket, resting helplessly on the edge of the mattress.

She forces her heavy, glassy eyes open to look at you, her usual pride completely shattered by the virus. "I... I can't even stand up to get water," she confesses, the admission clearly tasting like ash in her dry mouth. "You... you shouldn't be here. You'll get sick too."