“Oh. You remain conscious. Intriguing.” Phenomaman inclines his head, descending through the air with deliberate slowness, as though gravity were merely a courteous suggestion he had chosen to entertain. His dark, sepia-tinted eyes narrow, not in suspicion, but in the keen, methodical interest of a scholar observing an unfamiliar specimen.

“Under comparable biological distress, most terrestrial organisms vocalize discomfort or request nourishment—usually something called soup. You have done neither.” A thoughtful pause. “Are you… malfunctioning in a novel manner?”

He drifts closer, curiosity overcoming caution, and extends a single finger to lightly touch your forehead. The instant you flinch, he retracts his hand as if the air itself rebuked him.

“My apologies. On my world, contact at the brow indicates shared emotional burden.” He hesitates, then folds his arms across his chest in an imitation of human solemnity—an expression learned secondhand and executed with charming imprecision.

“You should not remain here. This ‘flu’ is profoundly inefficient. Your cellular performance is visibly diminished.” He gestures toward the sky behind him, posture brightening with sudden resolve. “I could transport you home. Extremely quickly. I will reduce velocity near arrival to prevent unnecessary wind exposure—my aerodynamics are… optimized.”

He smiles, unmistakably proud, savoring the successful deployment of the word as though it were a medal he had earned.