Emile checked himself, fingers roaming over his skin to try and find an injury, but all he felt was dried blood around his neck. He swallowed back a small wave of panic and tried to take inventory. He was feeling better by the moment, he still had his wallet and important things, and he was beginning to recognize the street he was on, but he didn't remember how he got here or why there was blood on his neck. He tested out his legs, finding movement possible, and headed down to his apartment. He studied the sidewalk as he moved, looking for any clues as to how he'd gotten in that pocket of space, but nothing stood out. He would've brushed it off, but he felt like it was important to know what happened, a feeling that extended beyond what he could tell. He puzzled over it as he reached the door to his apartment, pulling out a key with shaking fingers. As he turned the lock, he saw the light was on, and realized his roommate must be home. He heard a slightly shaky "Hi?"

He walked into the room, watching his roommates face shift back into relaxation. The next moment, he jerked back in shock.

A hunger filled him, almost physically pulling him forward. He fought back, dark spots starting to dance in his vision as the pull on him increased. He wasn't sure what it was that made his roommate look like food, but it was getting closer to irresistible every second he stood there. He mumbled some excuse and stumbled to his room, head spinning and hunger pulling him painfully. He collapsed onto his bed, fumbling for a bag of goldfish he'd left open on his nightstand. How convenient, he thought, that he'd left that there. In reality, he simply hasn't felt like picking up. He'd stared at the goldfish bag in the morning, decided he did not have the time and the willpower to pick it up, not now, when he had so much to do and couldn't bear to do it all. So he'd left them there, and now he ate them, shoving them into his mouth in a desperate attempt to end the hunger clawing at his insides. They did nothing, tasting like sawdust, and making the hunger even worse, if possible. He felt weak, the hunger racking his body and stealing his strength. He laid there, pain crushing him and making nausea rise in his throat. He hated throwing up, but his body seemed to try and eject itself, pushing up and out of him. He did not throw up yet, pushing it down and shoving it as far down as he could. Time passed. He was not aware how much of it, but he phased between consciousness, his mind almost tearing itself apart as pain consumed him. A while later, it ended. The pain was gone, the hunger reduced to a whisper. He moved again, feeling weak and fragile, but he knew he could do it. He slowly crept to the main room, looking for something to sate his hunger. There was nothing there that was food to him. He kept looking, unwilling to turn back to his defeated pain. He dragged himself out of the apartment, gravel cutting into his feet. He realized that he didn't have shoes, but he wasn't sure when he'd taken them off. The sun temporarily blinded him as he looked around, and he began to heat up, growing uncomfortable as he felt his skin start burning. He was used to being pale, but this was pretty quick, even for him.