She didn’t even realise she was outside until someone told her not to get in the way.
One moment she was threading past stacked crates and salt-stained tarps, the next she was standing in open air with the morning properly awake around her. Forklifts beeped. Someone shouted numbers she didn’t care about.
The docks were doing what docks did. Moving things. Losing things. Pretending none of it mattered.
Iris rolled the bike out from between two containers, thumbed the ignition and waited patiently for Wulong to join her.
She pulled away easy, slipping back into traffic before anyone had time to remember her face.
Central Kowloon blurred past, towers washed in fresh ward paint and smug glass. Monks leaned out from scaffolds, repainting sigils that still bled vermilion, incense cans smoking beneath traffic lights like that counted as intervention. The city was already busy convincing itself the storm was over.
She cut up onto Chatham Road. That’s when Wulong almost fell off the bike, caught last moment by Iris’s hand as bike slowed down on the intersection. Iris snatched for him one-handed as the light flipped red, fingers closing around scruff and harness at the same time. The bike lurched, steadied. A horn blared behind her. Someone shouted.
She didn’t care.
She pulled him in against her chest and coasted to the curb, boots skidding on painted asphalt. Traffic flowed around her in annoyed, practiced arcs. No one stopped.
Wulong hung limp in her arms for half a breath. Not unconscious. Not fighting. More like… High as a kite. That what it looked like, at least, but Iris was not deceived.
She crouched on the curb, helmet knocking her knee as she set it down. Wulong stirred, head lifting, eyes locking on her.
“What was that,” she muttered.
He didn’t answer. He never did. But usually he had opinions. A glare. A chirp. A flehmen response to things he didn’t like.
Now he only tucked himself tighter, tail wrapped hard around his flank.
People walked past. A woman slowed, glanced at the bike, at the animal in Iris’s arms, then kept going. Someone else told her she couldn’t park there.
Iris supressed desire to flip him off.
Two intersections later, Iris found what she was looking for. The clinic sign buzzed weakly over the door, half a paw-print flickering in and out.
The clinic door didn’t open right away.
Iris stood there with one hand on the handle, the other braced against the satchel, while the panel beside the door pulsed a patient, indifferent blue. A small sign had been taped over the reader. TEMPORARY SYSTEM DELAY. PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE.
She waited.
Inside, she could hear movement. Drawers opening. Someone coughing. The faint, constant hum of sterilizers. It took longer than it should have for anyone to notice her.
A woman finally appeared behind the glass, glanced at Iris, then at the bike helmet under her arm, then at the satchel. Her expression shifted through three practiced stages. Annoyance. Calculation. Resignation.
“You can’t bring vehicles inside,” she said through the door.
“It’s a bag,” Iris replied.
The woman’s eyes dropped to the satchel. She hesitated. “What’s in it.”
“My cat.”
The woman sighed and pressed the door release. “Registration first.”
Inside, the air was cool and overclean, layered with disinfectant and something animal that no amount of bleach ever quite erased. The counter was cluttered with tablets, paper forms, a half empty mug going cold. Iris set the satchel down carefully.
“Name,” the woman said, already typing.
“Iris.”
“No, the animal.”
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
“Wulong.”
The woman paused. Looked up. Looked back at the screen. Typed it anyway.
“Species.”
Iris hesitated. “Cat. I think.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Age.”
“I don’t know.”
The woman’s fingers stopped. She glanced up again, irritation sharpening. “Approximate.”
Iris opened her mouth, closed it. “Young.”
The woman looked up this time. Long enough for Iris to meet her eyes. Then she looked back down and typed.
“Symptoms.”
“He nearly fell off my bike.”
The woman sighed. “Anything else.”
“He’s not acting right.”
“Let’s see him.”
The woman turned the tablet around. “Sign here. Observation consent. Liability waiver.”
Iris signed without reading. The pen dragged slightly, like the screen didn’t quite agree with her.
The vet himself was in his office, drying his hands on a cloth that had seen better days as Iris entered. He glanced once at Iris’s face, then at the satchel, and only then pointed towards the table in the middle.
Wulong didn’t resist when the bag was opened. That was the first thing the vet noticed. The second was the way he was holding himself, muscles spasming under the fur.
He checked the eyes first.
The penlight swept across them, reflection catching green and sharp. For a split second, the reflection fractured. Iris saw the vet hesitate, light hovering.
He blinked.
Swept again.
Normal.
“Hm,” he murmured, already moving on.
He palpated along Wulong’s front legs, fingers counting joints by reflex. Shoulder. Elbow. Wrist.
His hand paused.
He frowned, adjusted his grip, and counted again. Slower.
“Sorry,” he muttered, more to himself than to Iris. “Long night.”
He moved to the other side. Counted again.
His brow creased deeper this time. He pressed gently, then firmer, as if expecting resistance that wasn’t there. His fingers slid, stopped, slid again.
“How many legs does he have,” he asked suddenly.
Iris stared at him, like the doctor suddenly lost his mind. “Four. It’s a house cat.”
The vet nodded too quickly. “Yes. Of course.”
He looked back down. His hand hovered just above Wulong’s flank, fingers spread, uncertain where to land. For a heartbeat, Iris saw it too. Not clearly. Just a sense of overlap, of limbs crowding the same space.
Then it was gone.
The vet straightened abruptly and reached for the scanner. “Let’s get a baseline.”
The scanner chimed as it passed over Wulong’s body. The readout flickered, numbers stuttering before settling.
The vet frowned. He lifted the scanner away, tapped it once against his palm, and ran it again.
“Dammit,” he said under his breath. He sniffed, then glanced toward a vent in the ceiling. “They said they fixed the coolant leak.”
“Coolant,” Iris repeated.
“Freon,” he said absently. “Messes with optics. Depth perception. Makes things look doubled.”
He didn’t look convinced.
He set the scanner down harder than necessary and picked up a tablet instead, scrolling through results that refused to give him anything useful. The screen reflected in his glasses, numbers marching past with clinical confidence that didn’t match his expression.
“All right,” he said finally, settling into the tone people used when they needed something to be true. “Here’s what I can tell you.”
Iris waited. She’d learned the difference between certainty and performance a long time ago.
“There’s no trauma,” he went on. “No internal bleeding. Lungs are clear. I can do bloodworks, but that will take time.” He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.”Overall looks like he has an acute allergic reaction.
Iris frowned.
“Allergy to what,” she said.
The vet spread his hands, palms up, an honest gesture that didn’t offer much comfort. “Environmental exposure, maybe. Mold spores. Industrial residue. Bloodworks will tell for sure.”
Iris frowned. The explanation didn’t tell her what Wulong could possibly be allergic to.
“He’s been in worse places than this,” she said.
The vet nodded, as if he’d expected that. “That’s usually how it goes. Sensitivities don’t announce themselves. They build quietly, then one day the system decides it’s had enough.” He glanced down at the tablet again, scrolling more slowly now. “Acute reactions can look dramatic even when the trigger’s minor.”
“Minor,” Iris echoed.
“In theory,” he said, and gave her a thin, apologetic smile. “Bodies are complicated.”
He tapped the screen once and set the tablet aside. “I can start bloodwork now. It’ll take a few hours to get anything meaningful back. In the meantime, I’d recommend observation. Keep him somewhere controlled. Clean air. No stressors.”
Iris looked at Wulong. He lay on the steel table, as if her had no strength to stand, eyes open but staring into nothing.
“Overnight,” she said.
“Yes,” the vet replied immediately. “Overnight would be best.”
She nodded once, decision made more by necessity than comfort. Before she could say anything else, her comm chimed.
The sound was bright and eager, completely out of step with the room. Iris didn’t look at it right away. Neither did the vet. The hum of the lights filled the space between them.
Then it chimed again.
”All right, then.” The vet cleared his throat.”I will ask Ying to notify you once results are ready.
Iris finally glanced down at the screen. Timed delivery. Narrow window. The kind that didn’t care why you were late.
Iris hesitated. She didn’t care much about the job, if not her, some other burner would take it eagerly. But sitting here, waiting for news was above her.
She swallowed and slipped the comm back into her pocket. “I’ll be back later.”
The vet nodded and lifted Wulong with careful hands, cradling him like something fragile despite all evidence to the contrary. The door to the back swung shut behind them with a soft, final click.
Iris stood there for another heartbeat, then turned toward the exit, helmet under her arm, already bracing herself for the city to keep moving like nothing had happened.
