It was living with the possibility. Thinly veiled power controlled by the slimmest chance, by pure chaotic luck. Power limiters, divine gift from the heavens or culmination of scientific rigor, whatever it was that never allowed the beast full rein. Perhaps it had been the drink. Or the food. So many things held a poison, held it well and without detection. And a poison not actually meant to harm, a poison meant to loosen inhibitions wouldn't be easily detectable at all. It was always unexpected when an apparent control failed. Like a betrayal. Like the world rearranging its laws. Power limiters kept youkai under control. That was a statement of fact. At least, it had been.

It was raining. He'd never done well in the rain. Especially not when injured, water thinning the blood down to nothing you'd even notice, clothes too wet to provide warmth or comfort or concealment, and the very sound of the rain too pervasive to allow anyone to pretend they were not alone. He'd always been alone, really. He just hadn't seen it before. The rain made it easier to shiver, anyway, to shiver and not appear weak. It was important to not appear weak. They only attack the weak ones, like wolves, culling the human herd. Shiver.

Almost colder outside than in, staggering against rain-wet wood versus huddling against cold stone. He almost wasn't cold anymore, really, aware enough to realize the nature of it, fully aware that he was sinking into hypothermia without a way in the world to stop it from happening. Pine needles stuck to his torn robes, his sleeves hanging down over his bleeding fingers, his hair hanging down over his bleeding eyes. That's an exaggeration, though the slash across his brow lends the appearance. Even youkai bleed, he'd seen it. Humans just bleed more.

Nausea meant a concussion. Nausea meant a concussion or bad fish, and really a concussion was the more likely of the two. He certainly hadn't eaten. The rain had slowed, and he rested beneath the peeling trunk of a sycamore, smooth bark coming away in ragged patches like a slow, elegant molt. His breath came slowly, carefully, visible in a fine silver steam. His skin felt flushed, fever-hot against soaked cotton and silk and the trembling fingers that rattled their way through a cheek-cheek-forehead fever check. He'd never met his mother, so his mother had never done this particular routine, but he retained the memory from somewhere. Rain fell into his open mouth, into his staring eyes. He might be dead.

They came back. They came back and tracked him to his elephant graveyard, his final hiding place to smother him and smile at him and pretend everything was back to normal with his skin still scored by their claws. He'd never been the forgiving sort, and life seemed even less promising than usual. He gave up smoking (no, that's a lie) took up opium (no, that never happened) made certain it could never happen again (yes, that's more like it). Forgive and forget in others became mistrust and take preventative measures in his paranoid brain, if one can call justified fear paranoia. Went somewhat against the definition. And anyway, half-youkai's especially should be held accountable. We're all responsible for something along the line. He'd decided to be responsible for himself.