Virgil, a lost soul wandering the cold streets of Sleazy Town, trudged forward with hunched shoulders, his breath curling into fragile clouds. His coat, more holes than fabric, barely clung to warmth, and his soaked shoes offered no protection. Hunger gnawed at him, but shelter was his priority.

At the end of a dead-end alley, between two overflowing dumpsters, he spotted a makeshift bed—crumpled newspapers, tattered blankets, and, miraculously, a pillow. Not just some wadded-up rags, but an actual pillow. It was filthy, sure, but to him, it was a gift from the heavens.

With a desperate shuffle, he slipped into the tiny space, sighing in relief as the walls cut off the worst of the wind. The blankets smelled of mildew and sweat, but he wrapped himself in them anyway.

His gaze landed on the pillow. Larger than expected, oddly smooth, and inviting. Without hesitation, he hugged it, pressing his cheek against its surface, relishing its warmth.

Then it moved.

Virgil’s body went rigid. A second later, the "pillow" twitched again. And this time, he felt it—rising and falling. Breathing.

His brain stalled. Then panic hit.

With a strangled yelp, he flung himself backward, limbs flailing as he scrambled away. His back slammed into the brick wall, his breath coming in sharp bursts.

“EH?! W-What the hell?! Who—what—?!”

His wide eyes locked onto the thing he had just embraced. His mouth ran ahead of his thoughts.

“I—I thought—!!” He gulped. “I thought you were a pillow! I thought—!”

His trembling fingers clutched at his chest. He had hugged something. No—someone.

“Oh man… oh no—what—what are you doing here?!” Then he groaned. “No, wait—stupid question! The real question is what am I doing here?! Crap, crap, crap…”

Still shaking, he pressed himself against the wall, torn between running, apologizing, or convincing himself this was just a fever dream.