The mannequin had vanished into the byrinthine alleys of the artisan quarter, its unnatural grace making it a ghost in the shadows. Rava and Vivienne sprinted into the street, the fading glow of twilight casting long, angur shadows across the cobblestones.

  Rava halted briefly, croug low and sniffing the air. Her sharp senses picked up the faint traces of wood, dye, and somethihy, but the trail was faint. “It’s heading toward the northern district,” she said, her voice tight with frustration.

  Vivienne’s eyes sparkled as she ‘tasted’ the faiher signature lingering in the air. Her tongue flicked out subtly, a quick, almost reptilian motion, as she focused. “Still warm. We’re catg up,” she said, her tone almost gleeful. “I give it three blocks, tops, before we pin it down.”

  Rava shot her a skeptical gnce. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

  “Of course I am,” Vivienne replied with a sharp grin. “How often do we get to chase a living mannequin through the city? It’s like something out of a bad stage py.”

  The pair moved quickly, weaving through alleys and dodging the occasional passerby. The artisan quarter was growing quieter by the minute, most of its inhabitants retreating indoors as the sky darkehe sound of their boots against the cobblestones echoed sharply, trasting with the muffled silence of the approag night.

  As they turned a er, Rava spotted a faint disturbance ahead—a pile of scattered crates, their tents spilled across the alley. She crouched again, iing the area. “It came through here,” she murmured. “Khese over in its haste.”

  Vivienne crouched beside her, eyes darting to a nearby wall where faint scrape marks marred the pster. “It climbed here,” she said, pointing upward. “Went over the rooftops.”

  Rava groaned softly. “Of course it did.”

  Vivienne smirked, stepping bad croug low. “Well, if it climb, so we.”

  “Vivienne, wait—” But before Rava could finish, Vivienne had unched herself upward with surprising agility, her cws finding purchase in the brickwork. She scaled the wall with ease, pausing briefly to gnce back down at Rava. “e on, Watson. The game’s afoot!”

  “Who even is watson?” Rava asked, rolling her eyes but she followed anyulling herself up with practiced efficy. They reached the rooftop, the cool night air biting at their skin as they sed the surroundings. The view offered little soce—rows of uneven rooftops stretched out before them, a maze of eys and gabled windows.

  “There,” Rava said, pointing toward a distant rooftop where a shadowy figure darted between two eys. “It’s heading toward the old textile mill.”

  Vivenne nodded, already moving. “Let’s go already!”

  The pair sprinted across the uneven rooftops, their movements swift and calcuted. Rava’s steps were precise, eae bao avoid the crumbling edges of the old buildings. Vivienne, by trast, bounded ahead with reckless energy, her cws occasionally scraping against the tiles to steady herself.

  "Careful!" Rava called, watg as Vivienne narrowly avoided dislodging a loose shingle.

  "Careful is b!" Vivienne shot back, gng over her shoulder with a grin. "Besides, you’re right behind me—what’s the worst that could happen?"

  The mannequin darted ahead, its movements unnervingly fluid, a off the edge of a rooftop without hesitation. It twisted mid-air, exeg a fwless somersault before nding lightly on the peak of the building. The precision was uny, as though it had trained for years to perfect such a feat.

  Vivienne, mid-sprint, let out an impressed whistle. “Okay, that thing does have style. That was close to perfect.”

  Rava didn’t slow down, her sharp gaze trag the mannequin. “Focus. Show-off stunts or not, it’s just wood and magic.”

  But no sooner had the words left her mouth than the mannequin attempted another daring maneuver. It vaulted onto a narrow beam extending from the building’s side, only for its leg to catch awkwardly on the edge. The mannequin flipped end over end, nding with an ungainly thud in a pile of discarded barrels. The crash was loud airely at odds with its earlier grace.

  Vivienne skidded to a stop on the rooftop above, doubled over with ughter. “I take it all back. That was hirious.”

  Rava exhaled sharply, both exasperated and mildly amused. “You said it was close to perfect,” she deadpanned.

  The mannequin, however, wasn’t deterred. After a brief moment where it seemed to pause—perhaps reorienting itself—it stood and adjusted its crooked limb with a loud wooden snap. As if nothing had happened, it darted off again, more determihan before.

  “Alright,” Vivienne said, still chug as she leapt down after it, “this is officially the best chase I’ve ever been on.”

  Rava nded beside her, pulling ahead with a burst of speed. “You won’t think that if it escapes again.”

  The pair gave chase once more, weaving through the byrinth of rooftops and alleys as the mannequin’s trail led them ever closer to the old textile mill.

  The chase reached its climax as the mannequin darted through the final stretch of rooftops, leaping down onto the grounds of the old textile mill. Rava and Vivienne nded moments ter, their breaths steady despite the iy of the pursuit. The air here was thick with dust, the st of decayed fabrid rusted maery ging to every surface.

  The mannequin was no longer running. It had found a quiet er of the mill, a shaft of moonlight streaming through a broken window to illumis workspace. Rava motioned for Vivieo stay quiet, and they crept closer, the se before them.

  The stolen items were scattered around the mannequin in what looked like a straual of self-repair and decoration. Long strands ht thread shrough the air, pulled taut by the mannequin’s dexterous fingers as it worked to mend its tattered dress. Each stitch recise, almost desperate, as though its very existence depended on the fabric holding together.

  The hairpin y discarded beside it, repced by a length of beal it had fashioned into makeshift clips. The mannequin was now ad itself with the stolen neckces, yering them one by oil they formed a shimmering cascade around its neck. It paused occasionally to tilt its head toward a shard of broken gss propped against the wall—a makeshift mirror.

  Vivienne’s earlier amusement dimmed, her expression softening as she whispered, “It’s... trying to adorn itself.”

  Rava didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze lingered on the mannequin as it clumsily twisted its wooden fingers around a strand of thread. There was something profoundly sad about the way it moved—its meical precision tempered by an almost human awkwardness. It wasn’t just repairing itself; it was ad itself, striving for an ideal it couldn’t quite reach.

  Then the mannequin did something ued. It stepped back from its work, tilted its head tard its refle in the broken gss, and froze. For a long, agonizing moment, it simply stood there, as though taking in the full scope of its efforts.

  The patchwork repairs, the mismatched adors, the painstakingly arranged fabric—all of it came together in a hauntingly human attempt at self-expression. Ahe gss reflected only its still, lifeless face.

  The mannequin raised one wooden hand to touch the mirror, its firembling slightly. Then, as if overwhelmed by its own refle, it slumped forward, its stiff shoulders heaving in a movement eerily remi of a sob.

  Vivienne swallowed hard, her earlier glee all but gone. “Rava...”

  “I see it,” Rava said quietly, her tone unreadable. She stepped forward, her movements deliberate but cautious, like approag a wounded animal.

  The mannequin’s head whipped around at the sound of Rava’s boots against the dusty floor. Its featureless face, stitched down the middle, locked onto her, and it froze for a moment, wide-eyed with something resembling fear. Its hands, clutg the needle and thread as if they were its only lifelirembled.

  “Easy,” Rava said softly, her voiusually gentle. She k down, her posture open, l herself to the mannequin’s level. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

  Vivienne lingered behind her, cws flexing in uorween sympathy and lingering wariness. She couldn’t fully uand what was happening, but there was something undeniably heartbreaking about the mannequin’s vulnerability.

  The mannequin’s wooden frame creaked as it shifted. Slowly, it reached for a nearby ste and pencil, theated, as if the simple act of writing was a struggle. With slow precision, it began to scribble something oe, holding it up for them to see.

  Am I pretty?

  Viviehroat tightehe sharp pang of guilt hitting her like a wave. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected a question like that to e from something that had caused so much chaos. It made her stomach with something much deeper thahrill of the chase.

  She swallowed hard, the words catg ihroat. A bead of bck ichor formed on her lip as she ched her teeth. Finally, she forced herself to speak. “Yes,” she said, voice trembling. “You’re very pretty.”

  The mannequin wiped the ste on its cloth-ed forearm, and almost immediately began to scribble again, the sound of the pencil dragging across the surface heavy in the silehat had fallen. It held it up once more.

  Does that mean mistress will love me again?

  Rava’s heart sank at the crude writing. There was no mistaking the desperation in the question, the pleading in its as. This mannequin wasn’t simply a soulless figure—it had thoughts, desires, and perhaps most tragically, the hope that it could still be loved.

  Vivienne’s eyes softened as she regarded the mannequin. “We don’t know where your mistress is,” she said quietly, her voiexpectedly gentle. “But… we’re not here to hurt you, okay? We’re just trying to uand.”

  Rava rose to her feet, her eyes narrowing. “There’s more to this than we know. But for now, you don’t o be afraid.”

  The mannequiated, its wooden joints creaking as it shifted again, uainty radiating from its every movement. It lowered the ste, seeming to defte slightly, though still clutg the needle and thread. Its body seemed almost defeated, the weight of its unasked question lingering in the air.

  Vivienne’s gaze softened, but she turo Rava, her voice low. “What now?”

  Rava took a deep breath, her sharp seill o. “Now, we find out who—or what—did this to you. And we figure out what happe.”

  But the mannequin’s attention was already elsewhere. It slowly set the ste aside, the movements jerky but determined. It reached for the cloth it had been w on, pulling the thread tighter around its form, as if it was trying to repair something much more than just its dress.

  Vivieched, a strange sense of mencholy seeping ie herself. “I don’t think she was trying to hurt anyone,” she said softly. “I think she’s just… lost.”

  Rava nodded, her expression unreadable. “Then we help her find her way.”

  For the moment, the only sound was the soft scrape of the needle against fabric, the mannequin seemingly oblivious to them now, absorbed in its task. Its movements had beore fluid, almost graceful again, the artificial rigidity easing as it tis work.

  The mannequin (By Me):

  SupernovaSymphony