He jolts awake at four am, forty minutes ahead of schedule.

Nightmare, he thinks, although he doesn't remember his dreams and hasn't for a long time. Shark Drake is in bed with him, body curled around his protectively; Ryoga can feel his presence and the warmth of his body against him; the room is pitch black, kept that way by blackout curtains over the windows and door. At some point in the night he grabbed the dagger he keeps under his pillow. The hilt is warm and sweaty.

No smell of blood. At least he grabbed the right end this time.

"Was it him?" Shark Drake laughs.

Ryoga scowls.

"You're too soft, pup," he says mockingly. Ryoga can hear his teeth clicking together. The whole room smells like the ocean when Shark Drake is there, and the scent always lingers. It drives Rio mad; she's always burning candles to drive out the smell.

Ryoga likes it. It keeps him from forgetting his purpose.

Like he is right now.

He doesn't have any pictures, any letters, any physical reminders. He doesn't say his name. He knows Rio burns the letters that come without reading them. He knows it's been five years, and five years is a long time.

Ryoga has no desire to remember any of the battles he's lost, or any of the people he's been unable to save, or the day his parents and died. Mostly, he thinks he's lost the ability to remember his dreams because it's the only way he can stay sane.

If he could choose one, though, he'd want to remember this one. Even if it's a nightmare. Sometimes he's afraid he'll forget Yuuma's face.

Four fifteen.

He sighs. He shoves Shark Drake away. Maybe he'll just start his workout early.