The harsh, dry scrape of terrycloth rubbing against itself filled the bathroom.
Ethan held the folded gray towel out in both hands. He didn't look at the man. He was staring down at the brown puddle of river water slowly expanding across the linoleum, creeping toward the base of the toilet.
The man didn't take the towel.
Ethan pushed his hands forward an inch. The movement was stiff. Automatic.
"Just take it," Ethan said in English. He was too tired to translate the thought into Korean. He switched back anyway, his voice flat. "You're bleeding on the tile. Press this on it."
The man recoiled. He pulled his hand back as if Ethan were offering him a diseased rag. He stared at the cheap Target bath towel. His face twisted in a mixture of confusion and deep offense.
Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed his eyes shut for two seconds. When he opened them, the hallucination was still there. The wet, muddy robes were still dripping onto his floor.
The adrenaline had completely evaporated from Ethan's bloodstream. He was operating on pure, burnt-out finance autopilot now. Treat the intruder like a hostile client. Contain the immediate mess.
"Fine," Ethan said. He dropped his arm. "Bleed. I don't care."
He tossed the towel onto the edge of the porcelain sink. It landed with a soft, dull slap.
The man watched the towel land. He hesitated. He looked at his scraped knuckles. The blood was starting to smear down the side of his hand, mixing with the muddy water trapped under his fingernails.
He reached out awkwardly. He pinched a corner of the towel between two fingers. He dragged it toward himself.
"What is this wretched weave?" The man muttered. His voice was lower now, still raspy from the coughing fit. He prodded the fabric. "It feels like crushed stones. Where is the silk? Where is the proper linen?"
He dabbed clumsily at his hand. He winced as the rough loops of cotton caught on the split skin.
Ethan didn't answer. He bent down and picked up his dead phone from the floor. The screen was black. A thin layer of silt coated the glass.
He rubbed his thumb over the screen in a slow, continuous circle. The friction was a dull comfort.
The man dropped the towel back onto the sink. It was stained with a bright smear of red.
He turned away from Ethan. He looked out the open bathroom door into the main studio space.
He took a step forward.
His wet cloth shoe landed on the fake hardwood floor of the entryway. It left a distinct, muddy footprint.
Ethan watched the footprint form. He didn't have the energy to yell about the floor. He just turned and followed the man out of the bathroom.
The uneven, rhythmic buzzing of the cheap mini-fridge compressor kicked on in the kitchenette. The sound vibrated through the floorboards.
The man stopped dead in the center of the room.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stared.
The studio apartment was exactly four hundred square feet. The bed was shoved into the far corner. The kitchenette consisted of a sink, a two-burner stove, and a microwave. Ethan's desk, buried under stacks of printed pitch decks and half-empty coffee cups, sat wedged between the bed and the window.
The man looked at the open-concept layout. He looked physically ill.
He pointed a shaking finger toward the kitchenette.
"You sleep where you boil meat?" The man asked. The horror in his voice was genuine.
Ethan walked past him. He dropped his keys onto the desk. The metal clattered against the wood laminate.
"I don't boil meat," Ethan said. He leaned his hips against the edge of the desk. "I microwave ramen."
The man ignored him. He began to walk.
It was a slow, deliberate circle around the perimeter of the room. He walked with a strange, stiff-backed posture, despite his ruined clothes. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, tucking his bleeding knuckles out of sight.
He stopped in front of the kitchenette. He reached out and touched the cold plastic handle of the microwave. He flinched slightly. He pulled his hand back.
He walked over to the desk. He leaned over and examined the digital alarm clock glowing red in the dark. He didn't touch it. He just stared at the numbers as they shifted from 4:12 to 4:13.
He dragged his index finger across the dusty windowsill. He brought his finger up to his face and rubbed the gray dust between his thumb and forefinger.
Ethan tracked the man's movements with dead eyes. He didn't move from his spot against the desk. He crossed his arms over his chest.
The man turned his back to the window. He looked at the bed in the corner.
The mattress was unmade. The gray comforter was tangled at the foot of the bed. A single, flat pillow sat against the wall.
Directly across from the bed, leaning against the opposite wall, was a large, cheap floor mirror with a black plastic frame. It perfectly reflected the tangled sheets.
The man walked over to the mirror. He stood in front of it. He looked at his own ruined reflection. He looked at the reflection of the bed behind him.
He turned his head slowly and locked eyes with Ethan.
"A reflecting glass," the man said. His voice was dangerously quiet.
He pointed at the mirror. He pointed at the bed.
"Pointed directly at the resting mat," the man continued. "Pulling your soul out while you attempt to restore your qi. Who taught you this? An enemy?"
Ethan pushed off the desk. He walked over to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress. The cheap metal springs creaked loudly.
"Nobody taught me," Ethan said. He let his head fall forward. He stared at his own knees. "It makes the room look bigger."
The man took a step toward the bed. He stood over Ethan.
"It is a tomb," the man declared.
He gestured to the entire apartment.
"A tomb of trapped wind. The energy enters through the door and immediately strikes the resting mat like a blade. The mirror steals what little life remains. You are sleeping in an open grave."
Ethan rubbed his hands over his face. The friction burned his tired skin.
"I don't care," Ethan muttered into his palms.
He dropped his hands. He swung his legs up onto the mattress. He didn't take his shoes off. He didn't take his coat off. He just grabbed the edge of the thin gray blanket and pulled it up over his chest.
He closed his eyes.
"I am going to sleep," Ethan said.
A hand grabbed the blanket near Ethan's shoulder.
The grip was surprisingly strong.
The man yanked the blanket.
He ripped it completely out of Ethan's hands. He tossed it onto the floor.
It was a jarring, physical intrusion. The sudden movement pulled Ethan's shoulder forward.
Ethan's eyes snapped open. He sat up. He grabbed the edge of the mattress with both hands.
"Listen to me," Ethan said. His voice finally cracked. The exhaustion gave way to a sudden, frantic edge. "I have to be on the floor at seven. If I am not at my desk, I lose my job. If I lose my job, I lose this apartment. I will be on the street."
The man stood rigid. He was still shivering slightly in his wet robes, but his posture was unyielding. He looked down at Ethan. He wasn't nagging. He wasn't arguing. He was stating a fundamental law of the universe.
"If you sleep in this alignment," the man said, "your mind will rot before the winter solstice. You will lose your position regardless, because you will be a corpse walking among the living."
The man pointed to the solid, windowless wall on the opposite side of the room.
"Move the resting mat," he ordered. "Away from the glass. Away from the door's blade-path."
Ethan stared at the old man.
The man's face was deadly serious. He wasn't going to move. He wasn't going to leave. He was going to stand there and watch Ethan rot if Ethan didn't do exactly what he said.
Ethan realized, with a crushing sense of defeat, that he was too exhausted to win a battle of wills against a fanatic.
He let out a dry, cracked sigh. The sound rattled in his chest.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up.
He kicked his shoes off. They hit the wall behind him.
He walked to the head of the bed. He grabbed the heavy, fake-wood headboard with both hands. His knuckles turned white.
He looked over his shoulder at the man standing in the center of the room.
"If I do this," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a low, desperate whisper. "You shut up. Entirely."
The man didn't blink. He just gave a single, curt nod.
Ethan turned back to the bed. He braced his feet against the floorboards.
He pulled the metal frame.
The joints of the bed groaned loudly in the quiet room.