She awoke with a yawn, and found the entire left half of her vision was missing. By this point, she was used to it, even with the headache from that egg.
Rolling off the bed, she checked in on the housemate: he was still in bed, sick. Sick, but awake. He had taken notice of her, and croaked out that personâs name. âWolf...? Up again...?â âYes?â She replied, having gotten used to using that name. Though her act was clearly far from perfect, she seemed to have gotten off lucky - apparently, they had experienced this âWolfâ person having weird differences in personality and memory before, and seemed to just put it down to that.
She sat down at the manâs desk. â...Want me to, like, go get you something? Your throat sounds super sore.â âIâm fine, but... whatâs that on your arm? It looks like... like...â before he could finish his sentence, he sneezed violently. However, he had raised her curiosity, and so she checked the arms.
Writing. There was writing on the arm. It was a little hard to read, being written over fur and all, but it was there. Her eye(s) widened as she saw it. It wasnât like things kept going back to normal every odd day or so, and she certainly wasnât the one who wrote it. It wasnât even there yesterday.Â
The writing was a three-word sentence âWHO ARE YOUâ
