Walking onward, I realize with a grimace that the room I've entered is void of hardly anything except a spare couch, lonesome shot cups, table lamp and a wooden closet. The closet isn't nearly as pretty as the one bestowed to me in the room above, but nonetheless impressive with intricately ingraved, flowery motifs.

Thump, thump, thump.

Like a heartbeat, music thrums outside the room.

Boom boom, clash.

A drum bashes outrageously hard from afar, reverberating in my ears, aggression almost palpable in the moving air.

The black curtains sway a little, bringing with it a staunch scent of rum and the noise of a beat, a band perhaps. I approach the veil, slowly at first, but then fast, incredibly fast, as a different noise catches in the air: footsteps.

All very suddenly I'm out in the open again, and the smell of chinese food wafts quickly in my nose, enclosing on all sides. Blinking rapidly, I adjust to the slightly brighter lighting as someone knocks into me from behind.

Groaning at getting thrown on my ass again, I look up, realizing quickly that I'm behind a bar. In fact, I bumped into the bartender himself: a buff man with a scar running down his arm, and an owner of calculating blue eyes. They meet mine when I neglect to get up right away.

He gives me an incredulous look before stepping toward me, "I'm sorry about that, please, let me get you a drink."

The bouncer offers me a hand, but I dismiss it with slight unease, getting up and soaking in the curious glances from the customers at the bar.

"I'm underage," I mutter, turning to leave behind the counter through a small double door that reaches the torso.

"Who was that?" I catch one whispering, a women.

"I wouldn't get involved," A cynical voice replies. 

I take off in an attempt to look for an exit, ignoring the onlookers behind me. My stomach rumbles uncomfortably as I avoid chefs and waiters walking with hot plates in their hands.

My feet seem to stop on their own as I catch a strong scent of noodles-my stomach, again, churning with a painful emptiness no longer worth ignoring. So, surreptitiously, I pursue a cook coming back from dropping a plate off to a couple in the back, tailing them as they weave among the crowd to finally make it back to double doors.

Ducking a bit as the density of cooks and workers thicken around the entrance of the kitchen, I manage to squeeze through and come out to another environment entirely.

Hiss, chop, shink.

I glance at the various cooks slinging knives and rummaging about; decorated dishes, steaming pots, flaming grills and heated chopping boards simmering from every corner. The scent of fried deliciousness wafts into my nose heavily, beckoning me onward as I delve.

Hiss, shink, clank.

Finding the noises of cooking almost reassuring, I stop trying to make my hearing expand through the room, finding it a bit overwhelming.

Stalking around, I take note again of how different the atmosphere is down here in the restaurant, infinitely less tense despite the heat and smoke being just breathable. It makes me less regretful about not jumping out of the window-in that case there would be less chance to happen upon food.

A few chefs give me wary glances as I creep to a certain one cutting and serenading orange chicken. I lick my lips, hiding behind the counter before methodically reaching out to steal a piece.

Clank!

I flinch reflexively, immediately pulling my hand back in fright as the cook slaps down his knife, missing me by a half an inch. He gives me a stern look, continuing to cut and mince spices at an alarming rate without so much as giving it a glance.

Blinking in alarm, I calm my sporadic heart, straightening from behind the counter tentatively. He narrows his eyes at me, glancing at my cloak before grudgingly turning back to his makings. I watch cautiously as he steams broccoli and tosses around a small pan of fried rice and lo mein. My stomach growls with a startling intensity, a few of the cooks around the man with the knife gives me sympathetic glances.

Eventually, the chef I watch and sit in front of makes a plate of the chinese he's prepared, sliding it over to me before making another dish all over again. My eyes widen as a couple other cooks hand over a fork and knife, someone even putting down a glass of iced Coke for me as I pull up a chair, beaming at the offerings.

"Thank you," I tell him, gazing at the chef's warm brown eyes as he curtly nods at me.

I sit atop the stool shortly after, hungrily spooning in everything on the plate while downing the drink given to me.

After a while, I hear a throat being cleared, and I pause to realize it's directed at me, by the man who's given me the food.

"Eating like that...not mannerly," The chef says, eyes on his work as I pause in surprise.

I swipe my tongue over my mouth, blushing, "Sorry, I'm starving."

The cook gives me a softer look before putting his chopped up onions into the already garnished pan, "Boy of Kaito, no?"

I look up again at the man's accent, completely foreign to me as I shake my head, "No...I'm not sure how much you know, but Kaito took me in to heal...uh..-"

I show him my scar, causing a few other cooks to stop in their tracks and stare. A certain blonde haired one with his right ear slightly gone shakes his head, pointing a glistening knife at the wound. I pull the cloak around my waist again in alarm, trying not to stiffen up like a board from the sight of the knife.

"Person who attacks little kid, deserves death," He comments, his brown eyes changing red with anger as the one who served me waves a hand at him to calm down.

I swallow before speaking, clear and controlled, "I'm not a little kid."

The man with the red eyes puts down the knife, crossing his arms in amusement, "Pah, what is your height?"

"Five foot seven, maybe eight by now."

"Tch, when you are six foot three, then we talk."

I cross my arms to mimic him defiantly, "Oh yeah, how tall are you?"

The man's eyes change into a richer crimson before replying, "Six four."

I snort, "Like hell."

"Kid, don't cause trouble," The chef who I first met says, casting his brown eyes to the guy with the bad temper, "Marc, he is just child, no need to get upset."

"-not a child," I say under my breath, uncrossing my arms to fiddle with the fabric of Kaito's silky robe.

I look up after a few minutes to find Marc gone, many still casting me curious glances as they mill around with half prepared plates.

"My name's Eden," I finally tell the cook, the one I still sit quietly across from.

He looks up at me, offering the faintest of grins, "My name is Huntley, I would shake hand, but mine is covered in onion."

I swing my legs a little as I continue watching him fillet things, "That's alright, I'd rather skip the formalities anyway."

Huntley looks up at me again as I finish off my Coke, "Are you okay now? Last night, Boss say there was child staying among us, there were many nurses who visit for you."

I put down my cup whilst chewing ice, "Yes, I'm fine now. Thanks for the food mister, it was really good. I'll come back and repay you some time."

Huntley stops in his chopping and frying, putting his pan down in alarm, "You leave so soon?"

I hop from the stool guilty,"It..hadn't been my intention to stay at all, I'm sorry for the suddenness, I have to-

"Wait, Boss's coat, you shouldn't take Boss's-

"I'm borrowing it for the day, I'll see you again!"

Hurrying from the kitchen as chefs move out of the way for me, I thank them for their hospitality before trying to recall an exit.

"Hey, kid, where do you scurry to?" I hear Marc yell at me.

I hardly give him a glance in my hurry, "I'll be back!"

Exiting the kitchen's no feat: ducking under waitress and skirting around grills, until I flee to what looks like an exit in the back. I charge out of the restaurant, remembering my rush from earlier as I wrap the stolen coat around my bare chest. Wind tosses at my hair as I look both ways upon entering the street behind the restaurant.

No one seems to be on it except the occasional busboy taking out trash, so, figuring the coast is clear, I fly down the road, my heels hardly touching the ground as I race away. Toes skipping along the tread of the sidewalk, I pump my arms a little in an effort to release the tension in them from sleeping so long. My body slightly leans forward to keep the momentum, and my chest fills with oxygen-I turn, skidding through each corner to purposefully check what street I'm on.

I keep this up until finally, finally, I recognize one of them.

I pause in my run, heaving in deep breaths of air as I read the sign above me in utter alarm. Goldston, I'm on a street miles away from home; I don't remember walking that far to get away from the man last night, the man who caught me stealing food on thirty fourth. What's more, is that I almost never come around here, mostly because it's filled with sketchy figures worth avoiding. In other words, people with a strong affiliation with executives or Leaders, people that may sense my energy, or even worse-report me.

I pause for a minute longer before stretching and untensing my limbs again, letting hoards of air into my lungs as I prepare for another go at running home.

"There must've been something in that tea," I think aloud, because that would explain this sudden energy that's allowing me to exert what I had before the accident.

Bounding forward, I take off again, recalling the night before more clearly now: it had been late, and I left Cola back at my hotel-where she still unfortunately remains.

My heart strings pull thinking about her, a revenant, partly beast, partly wolf, and worse, unattached. I fear the day someone will realize Cola isn't attached, a roaming and emancipated spirit. That statement in itself can probably cause multiple, simultaneous strokes at the Academy.

The Academy-the man that caught me had been from there-not just from there...what had I noticed last night? Something important-

Wind catches in my hair as I put my hood up, the hood to the black cloak I stole not moments ago. I slow my pace a little, remembering now-the cloak of the man who caught me had on it a beautiful golden pendant. Not just that, but the people calling for him said his name, the name of a well renown leader.

Hide-it's a moniker worth running from when heard on the streets-evidently a man of high familiarity to all the citizens of this city, maybe to all of Vinara.

I glance up at the next street name, sharply turning the corner and nearly running into a poor old grocer selling fruits in my reverie. I apologize, cursing as I realize what street I'm on again.

Only ten more blocks, then I'll be home; wait for me Cola.

A/N: this chpt. was sporadic,, someone critique me