Content Warnings:

  SpoilerHeavy transphobic rhetoric (including slurs and misgendering); gender dysphoria; body horror in a gender context; sexual coercion and abuse; mentions of rape; mentions of suicide; BDSM.

  [colpse]X. Your Best Biological GirlIt takes me a while to actually listen to what Margaret is saying. I’m answering her many questions on an autopilot setting, simply nodding and shaking, as the st shreds of memory still scrape across my mind. Margaret doesn’t seem to notice - she's already bubbling with excitement, clearly thinking about how she might twist the Recuvia pill into her next research project.

  A part of me reminds myself, whispering sharply, that Margaret Christie is a TERF. But it’s so hard to keep that part loud when she looks at me with such open affection, when she moves with such familiar, motherly care. My only real work friend. My work mum. The staple middle-aged woman and her queer apprentice dynamic. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so tragic.

  I only really zone back into the conversation once she moves on from memory talk. She gets to her feet and pulls a sealed envelope from her desk, waving it through the air like a prize. "Could you bring this to Jordan when you go back up?" she says, practically stuffing it into my hands.

  The envelope is bnk on the front. Heavy. "What is it?" I ask, flipping it in my palm, feeling like I’m holding something I shouldn’t touch.

  Margaret pces her hands on her hips, her face bright with pride. "Blood results. Jordan wouldn’t tell me where she got the blood from, but I think she was testing me."

  Ah, Wayfarer’s blood. I’d almost forgotten. "She asked me to assess whether or not the blood came from a human," Margaret continues, pacing now, excitement bleeding into her voice. "Now a real amateur would take one look at the sample and immediately write it off as anomalous. There’s an XX genotype, but the hormone levels are more consistent with a human male. But, of course, there are transsexual men."

  I can’t stop my eyes from darting to her, desperate to get a read of her face. To catch a look of nausea or hatred on it, as she speaks about the people that she dedicates her evenings to destroying. There’s nothing. Just a look of satisfaction that she’s cracking a puzzle. Transsexual men - not a term widely used nowadays, but not an offensive one, either. I’ve met many a stubborn transsexual.

  One of the two Margarets is an act. I just don’t know which one.

  "But," she goes on, not noticing the way my hands are curling around the envelope, "that would still be a rookie error. Because the testosterone in the blood isn’t human. It’s an analogue. One I don’t recognise. It’s more potent. It almost seems capable of duplicating itself. It’s close, but definitely not human."

  She speaks with pure passion, the kind that borders on delight. Like she’s solved a riddle meant just for her. I nod, trying to hide the sting behind my neutral face. So that’s it. Wayfarer isn’t from this world. He’s a mirror, almost - but not enough to fit. Whatever technology the Regutors were using clearly wasn’t perfect. He must be from a simir reality, where biology deviated slightly. I find Wayfarer’s antics annoying. I think I always will. But the thought of him losing the tiny thread of hope he had - of finding a home to go back to - it sits in my stomach like a stone. He might be absurd, but as Jordan said, he’s one of us. One of me, at least.

  "Thanks," I say, before realising how stupid it sounds. Margaret squints at me.

  "For what?"

  I scramble, grabbing the first excuse that pops into my head. "For all of this. For the memory pill, for helping Jordan... I don't know what we’d do without you, Mags."

  She beams, pride radiating off her, and before I can stop her, she pulls me into a hug. I lean into it - just for a second. Just long enough to let myself believe I deserve this warmth, even if it’s being offered by somebody who stands for everything I despise. After everything I’ve just cwed through, I need it. Even if it’s poisoned. Her arms around me feel maternal, soft, comforting. And it devastates me how much I mean the words I said. I don't know where I'd be without her. But does she hate me? Or does she not even see me as trans?

  When she pulls away, her hands still resting lightly on my shoulders, she catches the tears on my cheeks. A concerned frown crosses her face, and her touch is gentle as she wipes them away. "What’s wrong?" she asks, her voice full of such tender worry that it shatters something inside me.

  I can’t tell her the truth. But my brain - cruel and clever - spins a lie fast enough to take advantage of the situation. One that might help me figure her out. "I’m sorry," I whisper, shaking my head. "It’s stupid. You... um, you mentioned transsexuals, and it made me think of something."

  There’s the slightest tightening around her mouth. A fraction. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would have seen it. It doesn’t mean anything, beyond the fact that she has an opinion on the matter. "What?" she says, her voice remaining calm, but her body stiffening ever so slightly.

  I sigh, shrugging as if ashamed. "One of my friends. He, um, he’s told me that he thinks he wants to be a girl. And I don’t know what to do about it."

  Her frown deepens. "I’m confused, Maisie. What do you want to do about it?"

  "I don’t know. I just... I don’t know how to know if he - they really mean it. I don’t want it to be a big mistake for them."

  Something sours on her face and I can see judgemental eyes looking at me, a look that makes me retreat into my skin. "Maisie, that’s really surprising," she says, her voice considered. "I really would’ve thought you would be somebody who understands that type of pain."

  I can’t stop myself from dispying my surprise, as my mouth opens and no words escape. Other than a "What?" She shakes her head, her smile a little sad.

  "I’m sorry, Maisie, I’m almost disappointed with you." A pulse of anger rises in my chest, but I fight it back, let her keep talking. Margaret ughs slightly, though it’s measured. "You should know that what somebody feels on the inside doesn’t have to match how they are on the outside."

  I nod, slowly, trying to stop myself from bursting out into a chaotic chorus of ‘what’s your deal, Margaret?’. Instead I say, "Yeah. You’re right, I’m sorry." She smiles, but I keep going. "They just mean a lot to me and I don’t want them to get hurt. There are so many bad people out there."

  Not a flicker of doubt on her face. "There are. Keep her safe, Maisie. There are scary times ahead."

  An ominous warning from somebody who - infiltrator or not - definitely has insider knowledge. But I don’t know what game she’s pying. She’s an excellent liar. I just don’t know who she’s lying to.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the gss panes of one of the office doors on the way back up. Maisie is a mess. My fringe has dissolved into the rest of my hair and my face has colpsed into a permanent scowl. The worst part is - I could fix it. I could fix anything about my appearance in a heartbeat. But I don’t. The memory dive drained more from me than blood or breath - it cwed something deeper out.

  I touch up my hair - without using my hands, of course - as I move towards my desk. But I stop at Jordan’s first, dropping the sealed envelope onto her workspace.

  She swivels around, curious. "Blood results from our pal," I say, lowering my voice and gncing over my shoulder to make sure nobody's paying attention. "It’s not good news."

  Jordan exhales, deeper than I expect, and sadness clouds her eyes. Heavier than my own. "He’s going to be upset," she says, defted. "This is going to completely ruin our movie night."

  That derails me. "You’re having a movie night?" Instantly, her face lights up - like someone hit a switch - and she beams with a childlike excitement that feels so rare in this pce.

  "Oh, Maisie - it’s so much fun. He hasn’t seen anything. No movies. No shows. He understands zero references. He’s a complete bnk ste."

  I chuckle despite myself. "For the love of God, Jordan, please don’t show him anything quotable. He’s annoying enough."

  She ughs, fshing her teeth. "Too te! We did a full Raimi Spider-Man marathon st night. He’s been threatening to put dirt in my eye all morning."

  I can’t help ughing too. It's stupid. But nice. Imagining the two of them - Jordan, falling down her rebellious spiral; Wayfarer, reckless and strange - somehow finding joy together. It tugs at something inside me that’s been so tightly knotted tely. Maybe there’s hope after all.

  She catches the wistful look on my face and waves a hand like she’s clearing the air. "You should totally come!" she says, practically vibrating with excitement. "We’re doing Mean Girls tonight. God help us - he’s going to be unbearable afterwards."

  A memory fshes - Sadie ughing behind the wheel, telling me to 'get in loser' as we headed to Scotnd. The ache of it folds into the warmth of this moment.

  I snicker but shake my head. "I’m busy until midnight."

  "Ah, your second job?" she says, nodding like it’s no big deal.

  My stomach lurches for a second before I remember - of course she knows. Wayfarer never shuts up. I nod, giving her a weak smile. "Yeah. Last night was... fun."

  Jordan ughs, leaning in conspiratorially to check Tommy isn’t lurking. "I didn’t recognise you at all! I thought you were, um..." She stops herself, thank God.

  The silence hangs just a second too long. "I do need to speak to the Wafer Man anyway," I say, pushing forward. "I need to know how the hell he found me."

  And I really do. Because if he can detect me, that means that other people can detect me. That means that Margaret can identify me from a crowd of bigots. She might not think to check. But if she ever does, she’s going to get strange readings from Holly - and my mission is over. I need to understand what the hell he was talking about.

  "Well," Jordan says, shrugging, "I’m not done at the gym until nine. We can wait for you. You can talk to him - then we’ll watch the movie. Sounds good?"

  I smile, the most genuine smile I’ve managed all week. "Sounds great."

  It really does. Because Wayfarer and Jordan might be the only two people in the world who I don’t have an ongoing streak of lies with. Sure, they don’t know everything that I get up to - but that’s more of a "didn’t ask" than an active lie. I don’t love them as much as I love Lexi, and I never will, but that’s the environment I need right now. One where I can rex and not have to track multiple overpping identities in my head.

  We exchange a few more pleasantries, but when it becomes clear that she’s pivoting onto gym talk, I make my excuses and drift towards my desk. I don’t sit down, though. Instead, I gnce over at George - who catches my eyeline and immediately regrets it. His face sinks like a stone as I tilt my head towards the meeting room. He knows what's coming.

  I feel a flicker of something darkly satisfying. A kind of power, new and dangerous in my hands. After st time, he's dreading this. Good.

  As he slides into the room, he takes a seat with his arms crossed tight across his chest, trying to project resilience. Something unbreakable. But the harsh, sterile lighting in the office strips that illusion bare. He looks small under it.

  "Do you remember my vampire theory?" I say, surprised at how calm and steady my voice remains. He nods, but stays silent - a ck of eye contact betraying his lingering doubt. "I ran into the vampire st night," I continue, watching his eyes widen just slightly, a twitch he can't suppress. "I was wandering the city and got attacked in an alleyway. They tried to bite me, but I fought them off."

  George leans forward, raising a finger - probably to defend himself, to rationalise, to expin - but I cut him off with a gnce. That’s not why we’re here. "This isn’t an I told you so," I say firmly. His shoulders loosen just a fraction, revealing that, yes, he absolutely thought it was.

  "But I know somebody who is now in a significant amount of danger," I say. "I need The Coalition to keep an eye on her."

  This time, I let him speak. "Maisie," he says, dragging my name out with one of his signature George sighs. "We don’t have the resource to offer personal protection to every civilian that's in danger."

  I shake my head, feeling the weight of the ask settle between us. "No, this isn’t every civilian. This is one woman who’s very important to me, George. And if it makes a difference to you, she’s very important to Tommy too. You owe me."

  He hesitates, the pause stretching long. I can almost see him calcuting - imagining the inevitable argument with Graham, weighing his chances of surviving it. Finally, he nods. "We can bring her in and give her a pce to stay in the basement," he says.

  I flinch inwardly, considering it longer than I want to admit. The basement is secure. Impenetrable. Nobody gets in. Nobody breaks out. Lexi would be alive - but at what cost?

  And while I like to imagine that she’d crack a dumb joke about one of her stupid force-fem stories, I know how it would really feel. I remember the ache of boredom gnawing at the edges of terror. The way time itself seemed to stretch and snap until it was unrecognisable. The loneliness. The fear of not knowing when - or if - it would end. She would be completely in the dark, completely lost. And it would all be my fault.

  Lexi would never forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive myself. But she’d be alive.

  "No," I say, sharper than I intend. His mouth tightens immediately, preparing for a fight. "Don’t bring her in," I crify, forcing my voice to soften. "I just want somebody watching her. You don’t need to think of it as surveilnce - call it a stakeout to catch the vampire. It explicitly told me her name. It’s coming for her."

  George rubs a hand over his eyes, sighing again - deeper this time, heavier. Then he nods. "Fine. But only because you’re right. I do owe you."

  My eyes widen slightly - genuine surprise flickering through me - but he doesn’t stop there. "Maisie, I’m sorry for what I asked of you on Tuesday," he says, and this time, his gaze stays locked on mine. No flinching. No retreat. Just the full, uncomfortable weight of sincerity. "And I’m sorry that it’s taken this long for me to apologise for it."

  Something in me loosens - not forgiveness exactly, but a guarded acceptance. A faint tilt towards believing him.

  "I’ll ask one of the other pods to send somebody to watch her," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact again. "Somebody that doesn’t know Tommy, since... well, I can read between the lines there."

  I nod, allowing myself the smallest flicker of impressed approval. "Thank you, George."

  A small smile creeps onto his face - tinged not with smugness, but with something closer to reluctant respect. "Let’s just keep this one a secret from Graham, yeah?" he says. And for once, I smile back.

  I’m about to head downstairs to get changed, ready for The Duck, when - for the second time today - I walk straight into Sadie. She’d been absent from her desk for most of the day, and the time she had spent there was spent with her headphones in, eyes fixed anywhere but on me. Even now, as we almost collide, she looks... dead inside. Like she's barely operating on autopilot, the fire gone from behind her eyes.

  She moves to pass me, stiff and mechanical, but I turn around before she can disappear. "Hey," I say.

  Sadie stops and turns back, suspicious. Her expression is cautious, flickering with something halfway between resentment and dread. "What?"

  I take a breath. I should tell her that I remembered everything. That would be the right thing to do - to start living without the constant hum of lies weaving through my retionships. But as I meet her gaze - that brave, brittle mask of hers, holding her together by sheer force of will - I falter. I think about what it would do to her if she knew. If she realised I’d heard every desperate, human thing she’d tried to bury.

  "I’m sorry," I say instead.

  The words nd like a stone dropped in water, and her face twitches - surprise breaking through before she can mask it. She wasn’t ready for this. I can see the gears turning behind her eyes, trying to figure out how I’ve shifted from cold disdain to something closer to mercy.

  "For not hearing you out," I continue. "I forgive you."

  Relief fshes over her features - raw, almost childlike - before suspicion tightens her jaw. She’s calcuting me now, the way I would calcute anyone offering an unexpected olive branch. She knows this isn’t like me. Not after how harsh I was earlier.

  Still, after a long moment, she gives a slow nod. Her posture eases just slightly, like a breath she didn't know she was holding has been let out. "Thanks," she says, voice low but steady.

  We stand there in a kind of awkward limbo, neither of us sure what to say next. No guidebook for how to navigate this weird middle ground, where we’ve both been the vilin and the victim in the same breath. Sadie gnces around, searching for an exit, but she doesn’t move. Not yet. It’s clear she doesn’t really want to leave - because once she steps outside, she’ll be alone again. And she’ll hate it.

  Before I can think better of it, my mouth moves. "Jordan and I are watching Mean Girls tonight," I say. "Starting around midnight. You’re invited, if you want to come."

  For a second, Sadie forgets to wear her armour. A fsh of hope dances across her face - soft and vulnerable - before she catches it and drags the mask back into pce. Professional Sadie. Competent Sadie. Untouchable Sadie.

  I realise - too te - that it wouldn’t just be Jordan and me. Wayfarer would be there too. And inviting Sadie into that circle... it’s reckless. It risks everything I’m supposed to be protecting. And yes, she looked past the Trowkin incident, but that doesn’t mean that it’s completely safe to let her in. I’d be putting Jordan and the Wafer Man in danger.

  "Thanks, Maisie," she says eventually, her voice even lower now, almost glum. "But I think it’s best I give that a miss."

  I feel a tangle of emotions rise in me - disappointment, for sure. I wish she’d said yes. I wish we could’ve had one evening where she wasn’t carrying a thousand invisible weights. But also relief, cold and immediate, knowing that at least this way, my friends aren’t in danger.

  I nod, masking the conflict as best I can. "No worries. Another time, then." "Sure," she says, already turning away.

  I watch her leave, a small, hunched shape moving down the corridor. For a second, something soft and tentative unfurls in my chest. It's going to be okay.

  Today appears to be the day of random encounters, because as I’m heading to The Duck, now wearing Cassie’s face, I spot a young woman in bck running toward me - arm extended, breath ragged - pleading for me to stop. I do, but only because the jolt of seeing her makes my body tense like a snare trap. A moment ago, I’d been rexed, floating, but now every muscle locks into pce.

  Because it’s Ava Fischer. The bitch who broke Lexi’s heart. The bitch who nearly destroyed her life. And the bitch that still won’t move on.

  And for a brief, searing second, all I can see is Lexi curled up in that hospital bed, wires and IVs snaking from her arms, shivering under too-white sheets. That image alone steels my face into a mask of disdain as Ava stumbles to a halt in front of me, her eyeliner smudged just enough to make her look fractured - desperate - in a way that almost makes me feel sorry for her.

  "Cassie!" she gasps, voice higher than usual, a strange anxiety trembling behind it. "I was hoping to catch you. Didn’t want to go inside again after st time."

  She seems dishevelled, her voice pitched high and a look of anxiety on her face. I don’t feel sorry for her, because I loathe her. Like Margaret, I despise everything that she stands for. She’s one of the good ones. The type that thinks if the hot trans women cast out the ugly ones, and the gender-non-conforming ones, and the uppity ones, and the overly sexual ones - then transphobes will finally accept them.

  I’m sympathetic enough to know that it stems from a pce of self-loathing, but I’m past the point of caring about Ava. If she figures herself out - that’s great. But I don’t have time for her.

  I pnt my hands firmly on my hips, every inch of my stance screaming impatience. "What do you want?"

  Our interactions together have been limited and I don’t know how she feels about Cassie. Am I one of the good ones or am I just a bit too clocky?

  "Is Lexi seeing somebody?" she blurts out, her voice all breath and panic.

  I bark a dry, humourless ugh - a single sharp sound that cuts the air between us. "Are you serious? What, you think you still have a chance with her?"

  A flush of pink crawls up Ava’s cheeks, betraying the embarrassment she’s trying to hide. "I just... need to know, okay? Fuck me for asking, right?"

  "Yeah," I say, my voice low, sharp enough to draw blood. "Fuck you for asking, Ava."

  I move to step past her, disgust rising in my throat, but she grabs my arm - fingers cmping down hard enough to leave a phantom imprint. The touch sends a full-body shudder of pure revulsion through me. I rip my arm away like she’s something toxic.

  "I just need to make sure she’s safe, Cassie," Ava says, her voice breaking into a growl. "Something’s going on with trans girls in this city, and I don’t want her getting hurt."

  I try not to ugh at how she didn’t include me in that wish. But, regardless, I shake her off, pulling my arm free and giving her a disgusted look.

  "She’s safe," I say, looking at her as if she’s scum. Which she is. "But if anything did happen, I want you to know - it would be the fault of people like you."

  Her face contorts, a cruel ugh spilling out - ugly and defensive. "My fault? How so?"

  I shake my head slowly, a smile that feels like a knife stretching across my lips. "Because it’s your rhetoric that encourages these killings. Even if you’re not the one doing it yourself."

  I don’t wait for her to respond. I turn and walk away, each step slicing through the cold, each breath burning in my chest. I should feel triumphant. Instead, what sticks - what festers - is a gnawing, bitter pity for her. And beneath that, deeper and harder and sharper, a hatred so pure it almost feels clean.

  Lexi isn’t acting right. I’ve seen her after plenty of break-ups before - some with people she was way more attached to than Tommy - and she could always keep up that bouncy fa?ade. If anything, the frustration over a new enemy usually turned her into a whirlwind, venting about them to anyone who would listen, ughing too loud and filling the space until we all forgot what hurt her in the first pce.

  The only exception had been Ava. That break-up didn’t just knock the wind out of her - it buried her. She’d convinced herself that was the one, and when it all colpsed, it dragged all of us down with her. After Ava, Lexi had been a ghost of herself. Quiet. Guilty. Too ashamed to even look us in the eyes sometimes.

  And looking at her now - the way her nails tap impatiently against the bar, her gaze fixed anywhere but on the people who love her - it’s like seeing a warped mirror of that aftermath. Clearly, the break-up with Tommy has hit her harder than it should have. But not for the same reasons.

  This isn’t about Tommy. It’s about me.

  Because st night, I lied to her. I told her the mess at The Duck was linked to an ex - a messy, abusive girl named Maisie I’d supposedly hidden away in the folds of my past. I let Lexi hug me and apologise, let her comfort me with guilt I didn’t deserve. But she’s smart. She knows the pieces don’t fit. And she knows me well enough to realise that I see that too. That I'm hiding something from her.

  The bar feels cavernous tonight. Bigger than usual. Too empty. Rico is still trying - tossing out jokes like life preservers - but you can tell his heart’s not in it. He’s saving his real ughs for a day when someone’s actually able to catch them. Elias has retreated to the far tables, polishing surfaces that don’t need it, isoting himself like he’s worried whatever sadness clings to us might be contagious.

  "I ran into Ava on my way here," I say, reaching for a thread of conversation that feels safe. Only realising after the words leave my mouth that it’s a grenade, not a thread.

  Lexi doesn’t even flinch. "Oh?" she says, voice bnk, eyes still refusing to meet mine.

  I force a ugh. It scrapes out of me like gravel. "She wanted to know if you were still single."

  That gets her attention. She turns - and for a split second, her eyes seem to fsh a fiery, violent red. I blink and it’s gone, but the chill in the air stays.

  "Well, I fucking am now - aren’t I?" she snaps.

  A frown tugs at my mouth. "You think it’s my fault or something?"

  "I don’t know, Cass," she says, and there’s something brittle in her voice - halfway between accusation and resignation. "I really don’t know anymore. What happened st night?"

  I want - desperately - to tell her everything. To let the truth pour out between us like it always used to, back when we’d sit on grimy couches and cry over all the people who didn’t love us right. I want to fix it.

  But I don’t.

  Because as much as I ache with shame, as much as my throat tightens until I can barely breathe, I can’t make myself open the door. Not when I can already see it: the disgust that would flood her face if she knew. The way she’d recoil. The way she’d stop seeing Cassie - her friend, her sister - and start seeing whatever ugly, alien thing I really am.

  "It’s, um..." I say, hesitating, trying to find the right word, "complicated."

  "Complicated?" she repeats, as if I’ve just called her a slur. Her face flushes red, her whole body trembling, and I catch the slight shaking of her hands by her sides. "Cass, I’m not stupid. What the fuck is going on?"

  A tight band coils around my lungs, squeezing the air from me, and a pounding headache blooms behind my eyes. The tension ratchets up so sharply that for a moment I can’t even hear the low hum of the bar. It’s just me and Lexi, locked in this unbearable standoff. I can feel it in the way my breath turns shallow and frantic.

  Upon noticing my silence, she persists, her voice raw and desperate: "Cass, please. We don’t keep secrets from each other. We never keep secrets from each other. All I want is for you to let me in."

  Behind her, Rico and Elias are doing a miserable job of pretending they’re not listening. Rico fiddles with a coaster, his leg bouncing in a nervous rhythm, while Elias pretends to wipe down a table that’s already spotless, his movements mechanical and stiff. They both look depressed - like spectators to a proof that love, real love, might not be possible after all.

  If they weren’t listening in - maybe I would tell her the truth. Wow, Cassie, you’re such a fucking pathological liar - that you’re even lying in your own internal monologue. No, you fucking wouldn’t.

  "Lexi-" I start, but she cuts me off, her voice cracking.

  "Do you not trust me?"

  "Of course I trust you," I say, guarded, the words feeling too thin for how much I mean them.

  And I do trust her. More than anyone else. She’s the only person who has ever seen my true self, my happy self - and now, I’m going to lose her because of the one truth I can’t share.

  "Then tell me," she says, her voice breaking.

  "Lex, please..." I whisper, each word scraping against the rawness in my throat.

  She flinches like I’ve physically struck her. Her entire posture stiffens for a heartbeat, then colpses inward, shoulders drooping, the light behind her eyes snuffed out like a candle. I watch her build the walls back up - see her steady her hands, set her jaw - all in real time, hiding the hurt I just carved into her.

  "Fine," she says, her voice brittle as she turns away from me, heading back towards the bar. "You don’t have to tell me anything, Cass. But don’t act like I’m the one who ended this."

  I stand, stunned in pce, as she starts rearranging gsses, completing busywork to avoid having to continue the conversation. To stop herself from having to acknowledge my existence. Ended. A brutal word. One that has me paralysed, watching her from across the pub - my body seizing up. It’s been two years of us against the world. And just like that...

  How dare she. Was it so meaningless to Lexi that she could just throw our friendship away like that? Over something so petty? But it’s not petty, I have to remind myself.

  Our entire retionship is built on a shared connection that isn’t real. Yes, you might be able to perform mental gymnastics to justify my identity as trans - like Sadie did in our car journey together - but that’s not the version of events that I’ve bonded with Lexi over. And while she doesn’t know the scale of the lies - I don’t think she could even begin to imagine the scale - it doesn’t matter to her.

  Because any lie is a betrayal.

  My lungs seize, the air burning in my throat. I force my feet to move, pushing past Elias - who reaches out instinctively, as if trying to anchor me - but I can’t bear the weight of anyone’s hand right now.

  "I’m going for a break," I rasp, my voice like dry paper.

  "Have fun," Lexi says from the bar, continuing to distract herself with busywork. There’s no venom in her voice. No anger. Just polite, distant disinterest - the tone you use for someone you’ll never think about again. Just like that, I’m nobody to her.

  I feel myself dissociating as I step out into the cold air. My face itches, desperate to shift into something new. But I can’t let it. Because I’m scared it won’t stop at something new - it’ll dissolve into nothing. That if I allow my body to move how it wants, it’ll destroy itself. And what do I have left to keep fighting for? If not Lexi, what reason do I have to get out of bed in the morning? It certainly isn’t loyalty to The Coalition. It isn’t some noble desire to do good.

  I’m still sinking into myself, letting my hands and feet go numb, when I hear the back door creak open and click shut again. I don’t turn. I assume it’s Elias - the only one who ever seems to know when I need saving. But when Lexi appears beside me, leaning silently against the wall, I nearly jump out of my skin.

  She says nothing. Just sighs mournfully, the sound fogging briefly in the cold air, and pulls a crumpled cigarette from her jacket pocket. I know she’s not supposed to be smoking on HRT. I also know she always breaks when she’s hurting too much to care. Another thing that I’m now at fault for.

  We stand there for a while, just existing. Listening to the far-off rush of the road, feeling the pavement’s cold bite creep through the soles of our shoes. We're no more than two bricks apart, but it might as well be two cities.

  I break first.

  A sharp, gasping breath escapes me, and then I’m sliding down the wall, folding into myself, my knees to my chest, as sobs tear free from my throat. Loud, ugly, uncontrolble. I can't even look up. My whole body shakes with the effort of breathing through it.

  Most people would roll their eyes if they saw me like this. They'd accuse me of pying the victim again, of making it all about myself. Maybe they’d even be right. But even after prociming that we were "ended", Lexi Fontaine can’t bear to see me cry.

  She lets out a ragged sob of her own - a sound that seems to rip out of her against her will - and colpses beside me. She wraps her arms around me, fragile and desperate, burying her face against my shoulder as we both choke on the weight of everything we can’t say. Two wounded women trying desperately to find each other’s shape.

  I don't pretend it'll be okay. I don't kid myself that we’ll let go and everything will magically heal. But it’s good to be held. It’s good to hold. Even if this is the st time.

  Eventually, the crying dries up into ragged sniffles. Lexi doesn’t move far - just tilts her head forward, her cheek still pressed lightly to my shoulder, her eyes staring out into the dark.

  Her voice is low and frayed when she speaks. "I can’t let you go," she says, and the way her arms tighten around me makes my throat burn all over again.

  "You should," I whisper, voice breaking apart like gss.

  "I should," she agrees, her breath hitching, her heart breaking audibly in her words. "But I can’t, Cass. I just can’t."

  We sit there for a little longer, shivering against the cold, clinging to the fragile threads that still tether us together.

  "I want to tell you everything," I finally manage to say. My voice is so strained it barely sounds like mine, dipping low in pitch. "But I can’t, Lex. It’s not just my secret. There are other people who’ll be hurt too."

  She stiffens slightly at first - but not in anger. In confusion. She’s trying to piece it together without pushing me away.

  "Like Tommy?" she says, too quickly for it to be anything but a guess she’s already been sitting on.

  I sigh and nod against her. "Like Tommy."

  I look down at the icy ground, shame hollowing me out from the inside. "I know him already, Lexi. We work together."

  She loosens a little against me, though I can feel her mind working, whirring through possibilities she can’t quite nd on.

  "I have another job," I say, the words slipping out like a confession. "One that I can't talk about. Tommy works there. And so does Jordan - the woman who came looking for him."

  "And this Maisie girl?" Lexi asks softly, her voice fragile as a sheet of gss.

  I'm not ready for that conversation yet. I’ve already said too much - enough to wound, but not enough to redeem.

  "Kinda," I say, forcing the lie through my clenched teeth. "It’s... complicated."

  She lets out a sound - not quite a ugh, not quite a groan - but doesn’t let go.

  "I’m sorry," is all I can manage. "I really want to tell you, Lexi. But I’m not ready."

  "It’s fine," she says after a long, bitter pause. It’s not fine. It never will be. "I can never hate you, Cassie. Never," she murmurs, her voice almost steady.

  A beat. "But..." Her voice cracks on the word. "I don’t know if we’ll ever be the same until you tell me. I don’t think... I can look at you the same, knowing that you’re keeping something from me."

  I nod, my throat too tight to respond with anything more.

  And that’s enough to start the tears again. Silent, steady. We sit back against the wall of The Duck, clinging to each other as the cold seeps up through the concrete, as the world turns without us, as the cars hiss by on the distant road.

  Everything is the same as it was before, but at the same time - everything has changed.

  I very nearly fke on Jordan and Wayfarer, but I can’t. Part of me feels obligated - as someone else stranded from another world - to be there for the Wafer Man. To remind him he’s not alone. But more selfishly, I need answers. I need to know how he found me st night, because that could mean life or death.

  I don’t consciously decide to stay as Cassie. I just can’t be bothered changing. Tonight is about honesty. And right now, Maisie feels like the most dishonest face I could wear.

  I’ve never been to Jordan’s house before. She lives in one of those absurdly expensive suburbs just outside the city centre - the kind where sullen pensioners, posh students, and polished young professionals collide awkwardly. Jordan falls into the third category, but I wouldn’t bet against her having a past in the second. It would fit.

  I push past groups of ughing students, lingering cigarette smoke, and the sticky echoes of cheap cider on the pavement before reaching her neatly kept garden. It’s bigger than I expected - bigger than it should be for this postcode - and jealousy nips at my heels. Is she really paid that much more than me? Then I scoff at myself. The real jealousy is that she’s allowed to buy a house at all.

  I knock, taking a half-step back, still vibrating faintly with the emotion I’d tried to shed. I try to look casual, like I haven’t spent the st hour sobbing into Lexi’s shoulder.

  The door swings open to reveal a stern-faced Jordan, hair tied up in a loose bun, two rebellious strands framing her cheeks. She’s wearing a blue hoodie and looks deeply unimpressed to see me.

  "What do you want now?" she says, peering down at me like I’m a prank caught mid-execution.

  I blink, caught off guard - but come on, Jordan. You can figure this out. You met Cassie st night, for goodness’ sake.

  "Guess I should’ve worn pink?" I say, shrugging awkwardly. It’s not even Wednesday, but it’s the only Mean Girls reference I’ve got locked and loaded.

  The joke nds, mercifully. Her narrowed, suspicious eyes - those of a border agent checking a passport - snap open in realisation. Guilt flickers across her face instantly.

  "Oh crap, Maisie!" Jordan says, grabbing me in a hug before I can brace myself. "Sorry, I forgot what this face looked like. It looks good on you - you rock that macho look!"

  Macho look. That stings like a sharp pain in my chest. Cassie does not pass as well as Lexi - mostly because she doesn’t hold herself with as much confidence. Because she’s just a little too tall, and her face still a little too angur. But she’s still very btantly a woman - with her long hair, shaped eyebrows, and high cheekbones.

  The words hit harder than a punch. A brutal gut-punch, dropping straight to the pit of my stomach. I lean into the hug out of reflex - but it feels colder than it should. Not like Lexi’s arms, not like home.

  I pull away instantly, jaw tightening. Coming here as Cassie was a mistake. Mixing my faces is always a mistake. I like Jordan a lot, but she’s never going to understand why I choose to live my second life as a trans woman.

  Jordan picks up on it immediately - panic fshing in her eyes. "Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry."

  I sigh, trying to stop my voice from shaking. "Still a woman, Jordan. Don’t call me macho."

  For a second, confusion flits across her features. That why does it matter look. That people call me macho all the time look. But she’s better than that. She knows that asking would only complicate the situation. So she straightens up, nodding crisply. A genuine, if slightly awkward, smile blooming across her face.

  "Got it. Sorry, Maisie."

  Truth is, I don’t know why it matters. There's no difference between Jordan and I. I shouldn’t get dysphoria for being read as male. I might consider myself to be trans, but I was never assigned male at birth. But if Cassie were real, it would matter to her, and so I have to make it matter.

  The warm smell of popcorn drifts out from behind her, pulling me across the threshold. And despite everything - despite the soreness in my chest, despite the faint tremble still running through my hands - I’m committed. I’m here.

  "And, um, it’s Cassie. When I look like this - my name’s Cassie."

  Jordan pauses, giving me a long, deliberate once-over, like she’s engraving this version of me into memory. Finally, she nods. "I’ll do my best. Please don’t get mad at me if I slip up, though."

  I give a wry smile. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

  She steps back, ushering me into the house. I can tell she’s trying to move past it, but there’s a thread of tension still stitched into her face - like she’s wondering if she’s just misstepped without fully understanding how. I shrug it off and step inside.

  The hallway smells faintly of vender, the walls painted a gentle green. The hardwood floors gleam under the light, and a row of pristine white trainers sits neatly by the door. Out of politeness, I slip off my shoes, leaving them at the entrance.

  "You needn’t bother," Jordan calls from behind me, rolling her eyes. "That arsehole hasn’t stopped stomping around since he got here."

  I ugh lightly but don’t bother putting my shoes back on. If this is Jordan’s version of a mess, I hate to imagine what she thought of my room when she visited.

  The living room throws me even further. Pstic vines and twinkling fairy lights hang from the curtains. A soft L-shaped sofa curves around the space, framing a flickering electric firepce. It's warm, cosy - far cosier than I ever would’ve pegged Jordan for. She always struck me as a maximum-efficiency, home is for eating and sleeping kinda gal.

  Sprawled dramatically across the couch in a neon-pink BEACH BLONDE BIKINI BADDIE T-shirt is Wayfarer - grinning, stupid green gsses perched on his nose. His whole vibe is so jubint that it throws me off. I was expecting him to look miserable - like we’ve just snatched away his only hope in the universe.

  But he’s smiling.

  "Have you changed clothes again?" Jordan sighs, but he ignores her.

  "Cassio!" Wayfarer cries, springing to his feet like a coiled spring, and before I can even raise a hand in protest, he’s got me in a bone-crushing hug, spinning me around like I’m weightless.

  It goes on about twenty seconds longer than it should, and when I wriggle, trying to push him off, he only tightens his hold with a cheeky glint in his eye - like he knows something about me that I don't yet.

  "Okay, you can let go now, Wafer Man."

  He drops me immediately, beaming, his white teeth a fsh against his dark skin. "You looked like you needed it, dear Cassio! You look miserable!"

  The words hit like a gut punch. My face flushes deep pink in immediate embarrassment. I hadn’t even considered how visible the wreckage of tonight might be on my body.

  "Hey! We don’t insult guests!" Jordan calls, marching into the living room, two rge bowls of popcorn banced in her arms. The scent is unmistakably sweet - not buttered, but sugary, caramel-slick. "And don’t you dare spill this batch."

  Wayfarer makes a dramatic wounded face at her scolding but doesn’t argue - especially not once one of the bowls is thrust into his hands and he starts shovelling handfuls into his mouth. It almost looks like he’s smirking, as if he’s dying to share a funny story that he’s not allowed to.

  "It’s fine," I say, mostly to Jordan, though I keep my eyes flickering nervously toward Wayfarer. "He’s probably had a harder day than me, anyway."

  And I mean it - even if part of me is still vibrating from earlier, from Lexi, from the word ended that’s now branded into my ribs. Whatever mess I’ve made, it’s nothing compared to losing grasp of something that you thought was home.

  But when Jordan fshes me the cheekiest, most mischievous grin I’ve ever seen on her, suspicion coils tight in my stomach. "What?" I say.

  "He better expin it," she says, jerking her thumb at Wayfarer. "I’ll mess up some of the words."

  My head snaps toward the man sprawled out on the couch, fshing his eyebrows at me with that same infuriating, infectious grin. "Basically," he says, almost singing it, "your science dy isn’t half as good as she thinks she is."

  I frown. There’s a lot I could say about Margaret, but one thing she undeniably gets is results. "How so?"

  He shrugs, one shoulder tipping up zily. "She assumed that my... what do you call it here? Testosterone? Yeah, she assumed my testy-osterone was part of my biology. But it ain’t!"

  It takes me a few seconds of blinking at my reflection in his teeth to understand what he’s saying, but when it hits, it feels obvious. I straighten up, a cold certainty forming in my chest.

  "Wait - you take testosterone? Like... as a medicine?"

  He shakes his head quickly. "I don’t take. I took. One dose, way back when I was younger, and boom. Made me big and strong and all that."

  It all slides into pce too neatly. It expins Margaret’s confusion. It expins the strange hormonal markers.

  "So..." I say, carefully, "you’re trans?"

  He beams like I’ve just offered him a prize. "I dunno," he says, a full-body shrug that makes the fairy lights behind him sway. "That’s what J-dog said, but I don’t know what this is."

  I frown harder. "You’re a man, yeah?"

  He nods, emphatic. "As manly as they come, Cassio."

  "But you weren’t born this way?"

  He tilts his head, thinks, then shakes it. "I don’t think so, babe."

  "Well then," I say, lips twitching into a reluctant smile, "yeah. It sounds like you’re trans."

  He pumps his fists in the air like he’s just won something. "Awesome. I still don’t know what it means, but thanks, Cassio. I’m sure I can find some gorgeous trans babe to expin it to me."

  My eyes roll instinctively. "You just had one do that."

  I expect at least a flicker of surprise - some acknowledgement - but he just recovers smoothly, grinning wider. "Cassio, babe, I love you - but you haven’t expined shit."

  Despite myself, ughter bursts out. It's light, sweet, like the first breath after holding it too long. I plop down next to him on the sofa, and Jordan - still standing awkwardly like a guest in her own home - takes the opposite seat.

  Just as we’re about to drift back into safer, Jordan-friendly topics, something cold stabs through my chest. Margaret’s words from earlier echo through my head, sharp and insistent:

  Self-replicating.

  "This testosterone analogue you use," I say, my voice threading into something tighter, smaller, "you said you only had to take it once. Because it... replicates itself?"

  Wayfarer beams with pride, completely unaware of the knife twisting in my stomach. "Indeed, doll! One-and-done. Don’t even need the raw form. You can just take the blood of somebody who has it in their system and boom - infinite testesto-esterostone!"

  He’s fishing for a ugh, but I can’t. Dizziness seizes me. My vision contracts around the twinkling lights and the fake vines on the walls. The cosy room, the fairy-tale setting Jordan built for herself, starts to colpse inward like the memory worlds had.

  FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

  A biological agent that has the ability to completely masculinise a person, with just one dose necessary. So potent that it could potentially override feminising HRT - and do so permanently. Where’s the worst pce something like that could end up? The same pce that it actually did end up - right in the hands of Margaret and Mother’s Day.

  "You okay, Mai- Cassie?" Jordan says, catching herself too te. She sets her popcorn down and crosses the room, her hand firm on my shoulder.

  I don’t answer immediately. My eyes are locked on Wayfarer, desperate for some kind of salvation. "If you wanted to... stop being a man physically," I say. "If you wanted to go back, is it possible?"

  He pauses, considering it like it's a riddle. Then shakes his head, gentle but firm. "No can do, Cassio. Getting rid of this stuff? Near impossible. You gotta be absolutely sure."

  I drop my face into my hands, a muffled scream tearing out from between my fingers. I feel their eyes on me - a sharp, expectant silence - but I don't look up. The weight of it pins me down. Wayfarer twists on the couch to get a better look, curiosity shimmering in his eyes. Jordan grips her bowl like she’s afraid she'll fall off the earth if she lets go. The air between us is thick and fragile. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I want to be honest and open. I am proud of that.

  "I think your blood has fallen into the hands of somebody very bad," I say, my voice breaking through my fingers, low and raw.

  "How?" Jordan asks, almost too quickly. "The only person I gave it to was Margaret and..." She trails off. She sees the way I flinch. "What? You mean Margaret?"

  I nod. Just a small tilt of my head, but it feels like it reverberates through the walls.

  "This doesn’t leave this room," I say, dragging my hands down my face. "But I’ve been investigating the deaths of trans women in the city. As part of that, I’ve... infiltrated a transphobic cult. A cult led by Margaret."

  The words are so ugly that the room seems to tilt with them.

  Jordan’s mouth falls open, her face carved in confusion. Like she wants to argue but can’t find the right pce to start. "What?" she manages, her voice cracking. "That can’t be right. Are you sure she’s not undercover?"

  I shake my head. "I haven’t asked. But I don’t think so. She’s been there too long. She’s not pretending, Jordan. She believes it. You should’ve heard the things she was saying."

  Jordan looks between me and Wayfarer, her whole body frozen. The realisation sinks in slowly, painfully, like frostbite setting into bone. She clutches the popcorn tighter - the only normal thing left to hold onto.

  Wayfarer, meanwhile, watches us both with bright, blinking curiosity - detached, almost pyful still. He knows something bad has happened. But he doesn’t understand what transness really is yet, what this blood, this betrayal, really means.

  "Crap, this is bad," Jordan says, her face going white. "What can she do with his blood?"

  I like that she acknowledges how bad it is before she even understands the stakes. She only needs to see the fear on my face to understand.

  "She could forcibly and permanently detransition any trans woman that she wants," I say, feeling a lump in my stomach - and in my mind, I can’t help but picture Lexi, trapped and helpless.

  "Are you..." Jordan says, pausing, before taking a breath and deciding to be brave, "are you safe?"

  I nod. "Probably. It might be annoying, but I could probably fish it out if I were infected."

  Wayfarer is quieter than I’ve ever seen him. His mouth tilts down and his eyes dart between us, guilt hanging on him like heavy clothing. He doesn’t fully understand everything we’re saying, but he’s able to understand enough to bme himself.

  "The good news," I say, forcing a cracked smile onto my face, "is that we can do the opposite. Wafer Man, your blood could change the lives of trans men across the world. We could revolutionise the DIY bck market in weeks."

  Wayfarer nods and fshes a smile that’s a few shades dimmer than usual. He’s trying, but the pride doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  It’s only in that moment - in the small, awkward shuffle of his limbs - that I realise the bigger implication.

  "Wait, this means you’re from here!" I say, my voice rising, too distracted by the testosterone revetion to notice the weight still pressing on my chest. "Congratutions!"

  He beams, perking up immediately. "Thanks, Cassio! Great to be on the team."

  I salute him - the action automatic, childish - but a quiet ache follows behind it. He’s found his home. I haven’t. I probably never will.

  "I was going to ask Margaret to see if she can find any living family members," Jordan says from next to me, her voice thoughtful. "But... I’m not sure if that’s a good idea now."

  I nod quickly. "I’ll ask Edgar. He’s odd, but harmless. What do you think, Wafer Man? Ready to potentially meet some family?"

  He smiles wide, but there’s a flicker of sadness behind it, like a ship caught in fog. "We’ll see, girlypops, but it’s been a long time."

  We both nod, understanding that kind of caution. Time moves strangely across worlds - it could have been a week or multiple lifetimes since he left.

  Just as Jordan’s reaching for the remote to start Mean Girls, I remember that I have another question. One that can’t wait.

  "I need to know how you found me st night," I say, my voice sharp.

  Wayfarer gives me a confused look. "Do you not know? I assumed that it was intentional."

  "What was?"

  "Your body’s emitting a signal," he says, frowning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Something artificial. Very loud, very distinct. I saw it the first time that we met, and then I tracked it down st night - looking for you."

  "When you very rudely escaped," Jordan mutters.

  He shrugs, pulling up his metal arm to show the dispy. A white light pulses steadily on the screen, the waveform dancing closer and further depending on where he points it. It doesn’t look anything like RED. My breathing stalls. If I’m emitting a signal, does that mean Margaret can see right through my disguise?

  "No, I definitely was not aware of that," I say, as the chill sets in.

  I can feel it - a phantom pulse deep inside my body, crawling through my ribs, whispering in my bloodstream. It’s probably just in my head. But it’s enough. A reminder that I’m not free. That I never left the cage - they just made it bigger.

  "Hm," Wayfarer says, stroking his chin, his face folding into something close to shame. "Then it seems somebody else may have impnted that signal inside of you. Do you know anybody who might’ve?"

  The answer would hit me like a hammer if it wasn’t so obvious.

  "The Coalition," I breathe. My throat feels raw. "This must be their way of making sure I don’t just change my face and run away to start a new life. Fuck."

  A leash hidden just under my skin. Their way of making sure I never taste freedom. I feel Jordan’s hand nd awkwardly on my shoulder, the popcorn butter clinging faintly to her fingers. The contact should feel grounding, but it doesn’t. She’s part of them, too. If I fled, she’d be one of the people sent after me.

  I turn, slowly, feeling the world shift sideways around me. "Did you know about this?" I ask, my voice softer than I intended.

  Jordan’s posture tightens. Her shoulders hunch inward, and though she meets my gaze head-on, there’s tension bleeding through every line of her body.

  "No," she says, and she sounds sincere. But the thing about people like Jordan is - sincerity is cheap.

  I feel like shit when I wake up on Jordan’s sofa. A light hangover throbs at my temples, and my muscles ache like I’ve been dragged across the floor all night. I sit up, peeling a few rogue popcorn kernels off my skin, grimacing at the tacky sensation. No idea how they ended up there - Wayfarer must’ve staged some sort of popcorn massacre before I arrived.

  It’s the first time in a long while that I’ve slept outside of my room. The thought that I might’ve triggered some Coalition arm briefly crosses my mind - but I squash it down. They won’t be worried. Why would they be, when they’ve got me tagged like a dog?

  Ever since Wayfarer mentioned it, I’ve been scouring myself, searching every corner of my body for the impnted signal. But no matter how hard I focus, I can’t find it. The helplessness it brings makes me want to tear my skin off. Rage prickles under my ribs, hot and poisonous, but beneath that is something worse - the sick certainty that I have no real autonomy.

  For a brief second, I worry about the fact that the outfit I’m wearing as Cassie won’t be appropriate for Maisie - but that’s one perk of living beneath your workpce. I can do a quick change once I get there. But I don’t want to be Maisie right now. Because Maisie is a lie. I want to stay as Cassie for as long as I can. Still, practicality will win, like it always does. I’ll switch faces at the front door, wearing my compliance like a second skin.

  It would be polite to wait for Jordan and walk in together, but the thought tightens my chest. I need space. I need quiet. If I stay, Jordan will wake up, and she’ll chatter about gym routines and mean well and remind me that even the friends I trust are part of the machine I’m trapped inside. So I slip out of her house, leaving nothing but a hastily thumbed-out thank-you text behind.

  Outside, the world is eerily peaceful - a sharp contrast to the chaotic, drunken student hordes that had clogged the streets st night. The sky is a bruised purple, the first tentative light of morning creeping between the rows of manicured hedges and neat, soulless houses.

  I shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets and walk toward the city centre, each step pulling me farther away not just from Jordan’s house, but from the people who still cared enough to open their doors to me. I know I’m needlessly putting distance between us. But I have to. Staying would only make it hurt more.

  Tonight, I’m supposed to meet Ishani to get intel on the Mother’s Day cultists - which promises to be a nightmare, considering she’s tried to kill me at least once already this week. Tomorrow, I’m wasting another Saturday with eggy little Jamie. Though this time, I’ll be watching him like a hawk. Because maybe he’s my vampire.

  And shit. I also need to get to Scotnd. I promised Gill, the leader of the baby-eating Trowkin, that I’d check in on his daughter, Esmeralda. That was nearly a week ago now. Hopefully he didn’t mean too frequently. But how the hell am I getting back to Dunbne? I don’t drive. Public transport would take forever, and I can’t afford to miss work.

  Sighing, I see an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. I flick open my phone and fire off a text to Jamie.

  Niamh: hey. crazy q: do you drive?

  He replies almost instantly. Clearly glued to his phone.

  Jamie: Not that crazy lol. Yeah.?Niamh: ok kinda short notice?Niamh: but any chance you can drive me to dunbne tomorrow instead of our lunch?

  There’s a short pause before his next message pops up.

  Jamie: Dunbne? Why do you want to go there?

  A good question. One I don’t have a real answer for. I dig through the dusty filing cabinet of Niamh’s invented life, trying to find something pusible. She’s flighty, impulsive. A bit crazy.

  Niamh: sold a top on vinted cba paying delivery feesJamie: Fair enough (:

  Christ, maybe Jamie is a man if he’s this gullible. He doesn't even point out the obvious - that petrol costs would dwarf the postage. He doesn’t care. Because Niamh is a silly little whirlwind and he wants to be part of her storm.

  The Coalition building looms ahead, its sleek lines and grey gss glinting coldly in the early light. I hate this pce. Every horror in my life has its fingerprints on this building. A cage with nice lighting.

  I steel myself, knowing I’ll have to shift back into Maisie at the front door. The thought fills me with resentment. I don’t want to be her right now. I don’t want to surrender Cassie, not after the night I just had. I don't want to go back.

  Streetlights flicker and hum above me - some already shutting off, surrendering to the approaching dawn. The suburbs have given way to the city again, but it's eerily still compared to the chaos of st night.

  I’m breathing out, preparing myself for the inevitable, when a sudden, sharp pain explodes in my neck.

  No warning. No sense of threat. Just a fsh of agony and then - darkness.

  The light hurts.

  I wake up on a freezing stone floor, my cheek pressed against the rough, unforgiving granite. There’s a numbness seeping through my limbs - not the comforting kind that cushions pain, but the hollow, disconnected kind that makes me feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin. I try to move and the cold bites at my bones, as if the room itself resents my presence.

  Blinking against the harsh light, I look around. I’m in a box - a small, square cell with crumbling stone walls and no sign of doors or windows. Custrophobia clenches its hand around my throat, tightening with every breath I force myself to take. This isn’t a dream. I’ve spent too much time in my mind tely to mistake reality. This is real.

  I’m still wearing Cassie’s face. Cassandra Vale has been kidnapped.

  There are only two suspects: Mother’s Day or the vampire. Assuming they aren't the same thing. I don’t know which thought is worse. I stay motionless, my instincts screaming at me not to make my alertness obvious. To think first. To find clues.

  The room feels designed against me. My captor didn't simply tie me up, they put me in an impossible room - which suggests they know how worthless meer bondage would be. The vampire has seen how powerful I am. Mother’s Day... not so much. Unless Margaret figured me out.

  Because if Margaret has figured me out, then she would know what to expect from me. And she would have access to far more resources than a lone vampire would. Assuming the vampire is working alone, of course.

  And I was taken near The Coalition. I bet she’s watching me through a camera somewhere right now, beaming to herself.

  Except... Margaret wouldn’t hurt me. Would she?

  A sick twist knots my stomach. There’s a gnawing doubt now, one that Margaret herself helped grow. She might have looked at me with something resembling affection, but if she ever learned the truth - that I deceived her as Holly - would that change? Would I still be one of the good ones?

  I shake my head, not wanting to explore that thought any further.

  I can smell it now - stale air, heavy and unmoving. Like no one had breathed fresh life into this pce in years. It sticks to the back of my throat, making it harder to breathe. Maybe it’s the vampire after all. Great.

  I drag myself upright, my legs unsteady beneath me, the drug still buzzing faintly under my skin. I wave my hands in the stagnant air, trying to grab the attention of whoever's watching.

  "I’m awake," I say, voice scratchy but defiant.

  I don’t know for certain that there are microphones, but I have to assume that there are. And it doesn’t take long to receive a response.

  "What are you?"

  To my surprise, my captor’s voice is distinctly more male-coded. I didn’t see any men at the Mother’s Day meeting, but I’m sure there are many on the payroll. An interesting opening question, though. Remarkably simir to one that a certain fanged foe asked me two nights ago.

  "You tell me, arsehole," I say, every word sharp enough to slice through the cold air.

  A long pause answers me. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve actually stunned him into walking away - thin-skinned, maybe? Another thing for the TERF evidence pile. But no, he eventually replies, voice still ft and emotionless.

  "What business do you have with ******* Fontaine?"

  "Who?" I snap back, instinctively.

  The name (which I mentally censor before it can burn itself deeper into my mind) means absolutely nothing to me at first. And then it clicks. My face burns red, and my fists clench so fast it’s like my bones are trying to shatter each other.

  "You piece of shit," I snarl. "Fuck you."

  My breathing turns ragged, fury crackling through me with enough heat to set the stale air on fire. I have faced baby-eating goblins, bloodthirsty vampires, and a literal hate cult in the st week. But none of them have made me want to rip someone’s throat out like this invisible bastard behind the intercom.

  "I will ask again," he says, unaffected, mechanical. "What is your business with-"

  "If you call her that again," I snap, slicing through his words with a voice that barely feels like mine anymore, "I will rip you apart. I don’t know who you are, motherfucker, but you will be a dead man walking."

  Silence again. He’s thinking, weighing his options. Maybe realising that he might actually have picked a fight he isn’t equipped to win. Perhaps wondering if I might one day have the capability to carry out my threats.

  Finally, he speaks again. Cautious this time.

  "What business do you have with Lexi Fontaine?"

  I scoff - a bitter, exhausted sound. "I'm her best friend, idiot."

  "I can see that," he says after a moment. "But Cassandra Vale doesn’t exist."

  "Yeah, you idiot, because-"

  I stop myself short. Finally, it all clicks. The incompetence. The outdated files. The blunt, meatheaded approach.

  Of course.

  I smack my forehead with the palm of my hand. "For the love of God, don’t tell me this is The Coalition."

  There’s a beat.

  "How do you know that name?"

  I rub my temples, feeling the cold grit of the air scraping my skin. A deep sigh drags itself from my chest as I finally give in, letting Cassie dissolve away. Shifting back into Maisie feels like admitting defeat - but it’s the only way these clowns are going to understand who they’re dealing with.

  "Go and get your manager, dickhead," I say.

  There’s no reply. Good.

  I really hope somebody is shitting themselves right now.

  The walls didn’t exist.

  It had been a projection - a manufactured illusion inside one of the Coalition’s containment cells, designed to simute a real environment for short-term captures.

  My "captor" is a scrawny guy named Paul, a low-ranking idiot from Pod E, now half-cowering behind George - who has come to unlock the door and let a very pissed-off-looking Maisie out of her second stint of Coalition captivity.

  I resist the urge to hit Paul. Probably a sackable offence. But God, he deserves it.

  "I’m sorry," he says, his voice squeaking over George’s shoulder, his face barely visible behind the senior agent's frame. "I was tasked with watching your friend, and... you were giving off weird readings, and then you just showed up here, and... I didn’t know, what was I supposed to think?"

  There are a thousand things I want to scream back at him. That maybe he should know who her friends are. That maybe, just maybe, a woman sobbing in another woman’s arms in the back alley of The Duck isn’t the clearest assassination red fg. But I bite my tongue - because there’s no way I can get through a single sentence without calling him a cunt.

  "It’s fine," I say, my voice strained tight enough to split gss. (It’s not fine. Lexi deserves so much better.)

  "I meant what I said though." I fix my gaze on his eyes, trying to summon a look menacing enough to lodge in his soul. Knowing full well I don’t look half as scary as I feel.

  "You do not call her that," I say, low and razor-sharp. "Not in private. Not ever. Whatever files you have - update them."

  He nods quickly, sheepishly. "Sure. I won’t. Sorry."

  I keep my gaze pinned to him for a few seconds longer. Let him sweat. Let him wonder if I'm the monster the whispered office rumours make me out to be. For once, I want somebody to think they’re true. I want him to be afraid of me.

  "Okay, Paul, you can go now," George says, giving him a little nod.

  Paul gives me one st apologetic gnce, then scurries off down the corridor - vanishing into the maze of cell rooms and steel doors. Leaving just me and George standing in the stark, fluorescent-lit hallway. The same hallway that leads to all the containment cells. And my bedroom.

  "Maisie, I-" George starts, his voice apologetic, but I lift a hand to cut him off.

  "George, it’s fine," I say, exhaling a sigh that feels like it drains the rest of my morning energy with it. "It’s not your fault. Thanks for getting me out. Though, maybe you could’ve picked someone more competent?"

  He gives me a weak smile. "I had to go behind Graham’s back on this, Maisie. Paul owed me a favour, and... he’s usually competent. I think he just gets a bit..."

  "Bigoted?" I scoff.

  "Flustered," George corrects, shrugging helplessly. "But yeah, it shouldn’t happen again."

  I roll my eyes. Truth is, I’m not really that mad at George. And aside from the name thing - which burns - I’m not even that mad at Paul. I hate that it happened, but I can see how the confusion arose due to institutional incompetence. That doesn’t mean I’ll forgive it, but it does mean I don’t have the energy to drag it out.

  "Do you want me to write up a list of people she knows?" I say, trying to salvage something vaguely useful from this mess. "Y’know. So you don’t accidentally lock up a drag queen. Or her stupid TERF ex."

  George blinks at me. "What’s TERF?"

  I sigh heavily, the sound scraping up from somewhere deep inside. "Don’t worry about it."

  The rest of my day at The Coalition is remarkably uneventful. It’s another round of watching RED graphs, belling potential events, stalking local farmers on social media - and yes, put a pin in that farmer one, we’ll get to it.

  For once, even encased in the skin of Maisie - that rigid, constraining shell - I don’t feel quite as suffocated. There’s warmth in the air, however artificial. For the first time in what might be ever, I’m on solid ground with every one of my colleagues. George still feels like he owes me. Jordan and I are suddenly besties raising a wayward trans man. Sadie and I are speaking again. And Tommy... Tommy’s trusted me with something precious. Lexi.

  But by the time the clock slides into 5 p.m., my Maisie time is over. I don’t have a shift at The Duck tonight - a grovelling message to Eleanor sorted that - but I do have a date.

  With the devil.

  It feels like a lifetime since I st saw Ishani, though it was only Monday. I scan through the mental file I’ve created on her. Clingy. Maniputive. Neck-deep in the worst corners of the internet. She was the one who lured Lexi and Cassie into a photograph under the guise of allyship - bright smile, fake warmth - before sharing it to her TERF mates. Calling us "troons". Painting us as predators.

  Of course, I met her on Wednesday night too. When she attempted to murder Cassie outside The Duck - mistaking her for one of Holly’s exes. Which was an easy mistake to make, as I told her that Cassie was Holly’s ex under a different name. Joanna, I think? I need to get that right.

  Holly’s body doesn’t come easily. Unlike Cassie or Maisie - who feel like conflicting facets of the same whole - Holly feels like something I have to build. Like constructing a scarecrow from mismatched limbs. Her face takes longer to align. Her frame - taller, thinner, meaner - doesn’t sit right on me. Her voice comes lower in my throat, weighted. Every inch of her feels like borrowed pstic. Not identity - but costume.

  And tonight, I need to breathe life into her.

  Because she was designed for one purpose: infiltration. She’s hollow outside of that. A paper-thin fa?ade. I can’t afford to have holes in my story - not with Ishani. Not with someone so unstable, so desperate. She could say anything. She could do anything.

  And so, I stare at the mirror with her face. Who are you, Holly Barton?

  I know what she looks like: a carefully calcuted version of "effortless." A flick of mascara, a swipe of red lipstick, the kind of blouse that says I didn't try, but I still look better than you. Her hair’s been tucked behind one ear just enough to frame her cheekbones, and she wears a look that says she knows exactly what power she holds - or at least, the kind she wants to project.

  But that’s only the surface. What about the rest?

  It would be easy to frame all of her life around her bigotry. She spends her spare time reading feminist literature, arguing with people online, and works for a right-wing think tank. But I refuse to believe that TERFs are as shallow as they make themselves out to be. I need to have some depth.

  What does she do for work? What sort of dull, frustrating job expins why she couldn’t meet until tonight and will prevent her from ever committing to anything regur? And it absolutely needs to be unverifiable, because Ishani isn’t Jamie. She will poke holes in my story if she can.

  I weigh a few options, each one too traceable - receptionist, hospitality, retail - until I nd on something bnd, miserable, and near-impossible to verify. Call centre work. Technical support for a telecoms company. A nameless brand, a warehouse of exhausted voices.

  "It’s so boring, let’s not talk about it," I tell the mirror, practising the brush-off with a weary sigh and an apologetic smile. Perfect. Vague, tired, and just disinterested enough to dissuade further questions.

  What does she do in her spare time?

  A triangle, a circle, a line - I add the tattoo to the back of her shoulder bde before I’ve even finished thinking. The configuration of those shapes is up to your own imagination. Holly is the type who reads and writes long, sweeping fanfics about four magical schoolboys from days long gone. Wizard boys who express queerness in a way that only het women think counts. She’s still plugged into that world: AO3 tabs open te at night, Reddit arguments over character arcs, the lingering embarrassment of teenage obsessions turned adult coping mechanisms.

  And if Ishani asks about it? Holly’s mortified. Won’t eborate. "It’s stupid," she’ll say, ducking her head, cheeks pink.

  Holly reads "theory" too, of course. But not really. She owns a few books with the word "feminist" on the cover and she retweets threads she barely finishes. Her passion really sits in personal vendettas. She’s the kind of lesbian who loves to hate. She’s proud of her disgust, and that pride simmers beneath everything she does.

  And most importantly: she’s still reeling from her break-up. Still haunted by Joanna - well done, Holly - a retionship that ended in a storm of hurt feelings and cryptic social media posts. She’s not ready to open herself up again. Not really. Not to someone like Ishani. Not beyond this one night.

  This is a few cocktails. And then nothing more. We aren’t doing this again.

  As if to seal the pact, I open my phone and donate ￡20 to a trans person's surgery fund. My own little act of penance - a blood price for the filth I’m about to let Holly agree with.

  I’ve only been to this cocktail bar once before. George’s ill-fated attempt at a "Pod Night Out" brought us here, and we sted all of an hour before scattering in different directions. The memory clings - awkward silences, surface-level jokes, and a table full of people who knew everything about each other’s work and yet weren’t allowed to say a single word of it.

  Still, the space itself is beautiful: a tall gss skylight glows like a beacon above a central tree growing out from behind the bar, its low-hanging branches wrapped in fairy lights.

  It’s bustling tonight. For a moment, I panic - maybe there won’t be anywhere to sit. But then I see her. Ishani is already waving.

  Oh, fuck. She’s hot.

  She’s stunning. I remember her as that eager, jittery kid clinging to every sylble I said, all hunger and hatred bottled in one. But the woman waving me over doesn’t fit the mould. Her hair is swept back in a loose twist, with a single strand curling down one cheek. A shoulderless green dress clings to her figure like it’s been tailored for this very night. Her lips are blood-red. Her eyes linger.

  And for the briefest moment, I forget who she is.

  It’s like taking a punch to the stomach. How dare she look like that. How dare I feel anything about it.

  My own outfit is understated in comparison - casual white pinstripe top dotted with strawberries, subtle make-up, and scrappy hair. Perfectly Holly. I sit down across from her, trying not to feel like the butch in a dynamic I want no part of.

  "Holly!" she beams, all perfect teeth and practised charm. "You look gorgeous."

  I scoff, trying to ugh it off as I slide into the seat. "Me? Look at you. That dress looks amazing."

  A flush rises in her cheeks. She tries to hide it, but the crooked smile that follows gives it away. The smile doesn’t fade, either - it lingers with slow-blooming heat, her eyes roving across my face like I’m a dessert she doesn’t know whether to savour or devour.

  This is going to be a problem.

  Still, she tries to py it cool. "That doesn’t mean much," she says, her voice slick. "I’ve seen the type of girls you go for."

  It nds like a stone dropped in my gut. A calcuted jab, tucked neatly beneath the flirtation. She doesn’t even need to say it aloud - just the suggestion is enough to sour the compliment. I keep my face pleasant, let the mask settle, and pretend it doesn’t hit where it does.

  "Hey!" I say, lifting a hand in mock offence. "I’ve been with real women too. It wasn’t just him."

  Every sylble tastes like ash. Misgendering Cassie doesn’t hurt the way it would if I’d said it about Lexi, but it still feels like spitting on my own grave. I mouth a silent apology to her. To all the women like her.

  And Ishani - of course - ughs. A quiet, pleased sound. Like she thinks I’m finally being honest. Like I’ve passed some unspoken test. I tense - just for a second. Just long enough to feel the knot in my shoulder, to remember what tonight is. She’s going to say worse. Much worse. If I flinch at every insult, I’ll never make it through. I steady myself with a breath, and in my head, I picture Lexi. Picture her in danger.

  That’s why I’m here. That’s who I’m doing this for.

  Holly Barton leans back in her chair, takes a breath, and smiles.

  At least it works. Ishani nods a few times, then leans forward, resting her chin in her palm with performative nonchance. "Still, that bastard stole the gold star from you, didn’t he? I’d want to seriously hurt a fucker if he did that to me."

  The comment hits like a sp - sharp, degrading, humiliating - and I blurt out the first thing I can think of. "Well, I think you already sorted that, didn’t you?"

  The effect is instant. She chokes on her drink, letting a rivulet of pink dribble from the corner of her mouth as she wipes it with a napkin, eyes gleaming with surprise. But she’s smiling. "You heard about that? How?"

  My main goal of this meeting is to find out more about Mother’s Day. Specifically, the other attendees of the meetings - to see if any of them strike me as potential vampires. My secondary goal is to work out what the fuck Margaret’s deal is. And my tertiary goal - which now seems the most in my reach - is to make sure that Ishani does not try to kill me again. That would be nice.

  "Who do you think he came crying to when it happened?" I say, trying to sound bitter and betrayed, like I’ve been wounded instead of hunted.

  She frowns, a flicker of guilt passing over her face. "Shit, Hol. I’m sorry. Did you get in trouble?"

  Hol. That’s new. ?That’s dangerous.

  I shake my head, trying to dismiss it. "No, nothing like that. He was too scared to go to the police - but he and his mates did show up at mine. I didn’t know what the hell had happened, but from the way they described it... well."

  I pause, expecting some kind of apology. But Ishani doesn’t apologise.

  So I continue. "Just... could you not do that in future? I want to forget about him. I don’t want to have to deal with him, his friends, or the police."

  Still nothing. Instead, she grabs both of my hands in hers - warm, dry, and unwelcome - and locks eyes with me, her face deadly serious.

  "Hol, he lied to you about who he was. He pretended to be a woman just to get in bed with you, as part of some sick fetish. Holly, he raped you."

  The world spins. Nausea crawls up my throat and fury licks at the edge of my skull, but I smile. I smile like I agree. Because if I stop smiling, I’ll scream. Her hands are still on mine and every cell in my body wants to recoil, but I don’t. Because I have to stay in character. I have to stay Holly.

  "I know," I say, softly. "But it hurts too much, Ishani. I don’t want to think about him anymore."

  She squeezes my hands. Her expression is pitying. Protective. Like I’m something broken she wants to keep safe.

  And for a brief, stomach-churning moment, I let myself think about Jamie - sweet, trusting Jamie. His awkward smile. His gullibility. The way he followed Niamh around like a hopeful puppy. He doesn’t know who I am. And I didn’t tell him. I lied to him to get him into bed with me.

  Am I a rapist?

  I swallow the thought down like poison. This isn’t the time.

  I shouldn’t have come here. Not tonight. The mask of Holly is getting harder to hold in pce, and the longer I wear it, the more it starts to feel like a reflection instead of a disguise.

  I look at Ishani, at her rapt attention and the satisfied gleam in her eyes, and I feel like I’ve been dropped in the middle of a nightmare I wrote myself into.

  She sighs. "Okay, Holly. I understand, but we can’t let them get away with it. They’ve been getting away with it for too long."

  Her use of them sits like a rusted nail between my ribs. Not him. Not that man. Them. I know her well enough to know she's not using it as a singur pronoun. It means every trans person, even the ones she hasn’t met, even the ones who’ve never done a thing to her. Her face is calm, but her voice hums with fervour - a quiet storm brimming beneath her skin.

  I keep perfectly still, because if I move, I’ll betray how sick I feel. Any twitch or flinch might show her how much I hate her.

  I’m reminded of Margaret’s words yesterday. Dark times ahead. A generic statement if it had come from anybody else. You only had to look at the results of the US election a few weeks ago to see that. But from her? When the leader of a group of Ishanis says that, you have to pay attention.

  "What is Mother’s Day?" I ask, dragging the topic somewhere - anywhere - else. "I mean, obviously - I was there on Monday. But is that all it is? We sit in a circle and talk about our beliefs?"

  There’s a half-second where she tilts her head - like a cat narrowing in on a twitch in the undergrowth. I freeze. Did I overstep?

  But then she smiles, and the suspicion slides off her like a bad coat.

  "Mother’s Day is the real deal," she says, with a glint of pride. "It’s not the most known gender critical group." The scorn in her voice as she says gender critical is unmistakable - she doesn’t even like the term.?"But that’s because we get shit done, Holly. All of the big ones think the battleground is social media and newspaper that nobody reads. They’re fighting a culture war, not a real one."

  I hope that the coldness in my skin doesn’t show. What have I gotten myself into?

  "I can’t expin it all," she says, now a little sheepish. "M hasn’t granted you full status yet, but I can tell that she likes you. She was talking about you a lot st night."

  Fear hits the base of my spine. That’s new information - Margaret and Ishani met yesterday. And Margaret was talking about me. Yesterday. While holding Wayfarer’s blood in her hands, probably.

  I force a smile, but I feel like I’m sinking into the seat.

  Ishani doesn’t pause for long. "But for example, one campaign we’ve been running recently is giving polite reminders to GPs that they aren’t required to issue troon drugs as part of shared care agreements. That it goes beyond their contract, and that if they’re starved for cash - which they all are - it’s an easy thing for them to cut." Her face lights up. "And so many of them have! You should see them all crying online, Holly, it is the most beautiful sight."

  I have seen those cries online. People sobbing because their access to hormones was yanked away overnight. People shaking with panic over how they’ll survive. I’ve seen timelines full of despair, and statistically, one of those breakdowns - one of those pleas - has probably ended in suicide.

  But Ishani is glowing, smug and victorious. She calls it beautiful.

  I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I just let the silence sit and poison the space between us.

  "What started you on all of this?" I ask, and it comes out more sharp than I meant. A little too human.

  But she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy basking in the spotlight of her own mythology.

  "I’m one of the OGs!" she says proudly, practically bouncing in her seat. "A lot of people think this movement spawned in the past few years. A response to the trannies getting too uppity. But we’ve been around far longer! I’ve been part of these groups for..." She stops to count, tapping fingers against her glossed lips. "Wow! Near enough ten years now."

  Ten years. My eyes sweep over her, trying to re-estimate her age. She can't be more than her early twenties. So she must’ve started young - disgustingly young. There’s something nauseating about that. Something tragic too. A weird and slippery feeling - part awe at her devotion, part pity for whatever broke her so young that she thought this was the right side of anything.

  The cocktail bar continues to buzz around us - bright lights, clinking gsses, bursts of ughter from nearby tables - but at ours, the world feels sealed off. It’s just the two of us, trapped inside a hateful little bubble.

  "That’s impressive," I say, nodding along. "You must’ve been young when you started out."

  She smiles. "I accompanied my Mum to every single rally. Travelling all across the country. It was quite silly and small back then. The same group at every event. We mostly just picketed outside courthouses or political buildings. We didn’t get much done, but it was great fun."

  Her tone is so full of pride that it coats the air like oil. This life of hate, of cruelty, of bloody causes...

  "So this is all you’ve ever known, really?"

  I half-expect the question to make her flinch, maybe even falter - some small sign that she’s considered another life. But her face only lights up more, the conviction behind her grin sharpening like a bde.

  "Yes! I never bought into the propaganda like so many other girls." She pauses. "No offence. I mean, it is very good propaganda."

  "None taken. So, your Mum is into the movement?"

  Her expression darkens in an instant, a shadow falling over her previously glowing face.

  "She was. She died about five years ago."

  "I’m sorry," I say, and I mean it. As much as I loathe everything she stands for, loss is still loss. Grief is grief. And the teenage girl she was didn’t deserve that.

  She shakes her head, brushing the sympathy away like lint from her sleeve, but I can still see it - the way her fingers tighten, the way her voice softens.

  "It’s fine, it was a long time ago. Besides, I have M and the others now. They take good care of me."

  I want to ugh at the twisted irony of both of us having the same work mum. But I can’t, because I’m starting to understand the young woman opposite me. Ishani is a monster, but she was made to be one. You're dragged to protests by your mother, who dies before you’re old enough to really start questioning things yourself, and so you repce grief with the idea of continuing her mission. You then fall in with a crowd who take up her role, who pull you in deeper.

  Is it any wonder that she’s the way she is?

  And yet, that doesn’t make it okay. She’s not a child anymore, she has the capability to grow and if she chooses not to - that’s on her.

  But there’s still a tiny part of me that wonders if I can fix her. If I can rescue her from Mother’s Day and let her grow to be somebody new, free from bigotry. Is it possible? Maybe. But it would take a long time, and I don’t think I can successfully pull it off alongside my actual mission here. One cis bigot isn’t worth sacrificing the lives of local trans girls for.

  "M seems nice," I say, forcing the words out like gravel.

  "She can be," Ishani says, ughing. "But, my God - that woman can be terrifying if she wants to be. But I love her. I genuinely love her. She gets it, Holly. Like nobody else I’ve ever spoken to about it all. And she’s ridiculously smart. Has solutions that we could only ever dream of!"

  That word - solutions - nds like a punch to the gut.? My throat tightens. ?A word like that, loaded with history, feels radioactive.

  "Like what?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from cracking. I lean forward slightly, curious, but not too eager.

  "Well, like st night-" she starts, then immediately flinches. Her eyes dart sideways, and her shoulders draw in, like a child realising too te that they’ve said something forbidden.

  "Sorry, stupid me. I can’t tell you. Fuck, I’m really sorry, Holly. I know you’re genuine - and I know M believes it too, but we’ve been burned before. We need more of a rapport before you get the inner circle goss."

  I nod, wanting to seem understanding - but the word solutions still lingers in my stomach like a swallowed wasp. I try not to dwell on what a woman like Margaret might consider a solution, but it echoes through my skull with a sickly, metallic throb.

  A part of me itches to probe further, but I already pushed once. Pushing again might snap the wire. Better to focus on the other piece of information there.

  "You’ve been burned before?"

  She sighs and nods. "We invited a troon once. About two months ago, maybe. He said that he wasn’t like the others, and that he wanted to help fight against the radical elements. I don’t buy that shit, Holly, not one bit. I don’t believe in so-called radical elements."

  There’s a sickened pulse at the base of my throat, but I bury it under a pstic smile. I know what she’s really saying - that there’s no such thing as a good trans person. That she hates all of us. And yet, my lips are moving before I can think better of it.

  I smile. "Because they’re all radical," I say, relieved by the nod she gives, knowing I’ve said the right thing. "I mean, they want to chop boys’ penises off? What’s more radical than that?"

  The words leave my mouth like vomit. My whole body feels wrong for saying it. I can see fshes of a hundred arguments I’ve wanted to scream into comment sections, but none of them will help Lexi now. None of them will help anyone.

  God, I’m going to need such a heavy shower tonight.

  "Exactly!" she says, passion in her voice. "But I was outvoted. Most of the others are too soft. They still believe in shit like gender dysphoria and other nonsense. They wanted to believe there were good ones out there. And he was good. Or, at least, good at pretending. He said all of the right things, and nodded along."

  "So what happened?"

  She sighs and shakes her head. "The fucker went into the women’s toilets. Thought he was entitled to. Acted all offended when he was kicked out of them. He stormed off and we never heard from him again. Gave poor Karin a heart attack."

  "Do you remember his name?" I ask, the curiosity pressing through my nausea.

  "I remember what he demanded we call him."

  "What was that?"

  She rolls her eyes. "Ava."

  Yeah, I figured. There can’t be that many self-hating trans women in the city. So Ava tried to join Mother’s Day, but they turned her away. Threw her out in shame because no matter how hard she tried to be one of the good ones, it was impossible. They don’t want good trans women - they want dead trans women.

  And yet, as recently as yesterday, Ava still believed in this rhetoric. Even after being humiliated at Mother’s Day, she still believed that she could win the TERFs over, if the bad trans people went away and the good ones took their pce.

  Baffling.

  We knock back a few more cocktails - though each one goes down like battery acid now - and the conversation drifts, but never really changes. Just different variations of the same hatred. Healthcare, indoctrination, social contagion. The bile burns stronger with each sip. I feel queasy, my stomach swimming, not from the drinks but from the effort of swallowing all this rage.

  The people around us go on ughing, flirting, enjoying their lives - while we sit here in a separate bubble of cruelty, the world’s most poisonous terrarium. I can’t even find Holly in this anymore. All the work I did - the job, the fandom quirks, the fake break-up - none of it matters. She never once asks what I do, or what I care about. She doesn’t even notice. It would be easy to mistake it as a test, if it wasn’t also accompanied by unmistakable lust in her eyes.

  Every time her fingers graze mine, I flinch. She leans closer when she’s excited, brushing my arm, letting her perfume stick to my clothes. It’s unbearable. There’s no room to breathe.

  And yet I stay. Because I’m doing this for Lexi. Because someone has to.

  "So," Ishani says, finishing what I assume to be her st drink of the night, "do you want to go back to my pce?"

  I take a deep breath. This was always going to happen, and I’m scared of how it’s going to go down.

  "I’ve had a lot of fun," I say. Her face immediately sinks. "But I... don’t know if I’m ready to go any further. It’s not you! Not at all! It’s just..."

  "Your ex," she says, sighing, taking the words out of my mouth. "Holly, you need to get over him."

  "I am, I just-"

  "No," she says, her voice firm, shaking her head. "Because sorry, I don’t believe you. You say it’s about avoiding the drama, but I can see it in your eyes. You feel bad for him."

  A series of swears swirl around my brain. Fuck, I’m not as good an actress as I like to think. It takes me a few seconds to think about how I want to py this. I could feasibly try and deny her accusation, but she’s right. And accepting that isn’t a surrender - it’s character work.

  "I shouldn’t," I say, looking at the ground. "But yeah, I suppose I do."

  "Why?"

  I sigh. "I don’t know. We were together a while, and he was sweet. A liar and a bastard, but he never hurt me, Ishani. I don’t want to ever see him again, but I don’t want to see him get hurt."

  Once again, she grabs my hands - which seems to be her go-to method of reassurance. "Look at me, Holly." I do as instructed. "That’s exactly how they win. Every single day they py the victim. But he wasn’t the victim, you were."

  I give a faint and weak smile. "I know, but... Fuck, he doesn’t deserve to die, Ishani."

  She surprises me again by scoffing. "Doesn’t he? Holly, he ra-"

  "I know," I say, firmer than I mean. "But I don’t think violence is the answer. Maybe that’s naive of me. I don’t know, but if something were to happen to him... I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself."

  And I don’t mean to, but I start crying. Just a few tears, origins unknown. A pipe inside me has burst, filled to the brim with toxicity, and now a small leak of sincerity has fallen out. Still incredibly encrypted, but far more in line with my actual views.

  Ishani rises to her feet, and I feel an immediate pang in my chest. I’ve fucked it. She’s going to leave, tell Margaret, and I’ll never be invited to Mother’s Day again. My leads will go cold, and I’ll never catch the vampire. Trans girls are going to die because I couldn’t fucking hack espionage.

  I sink into my seat, covering my face with my elbow.

  To my surprise, I don’t hear her leaving footsteps. I hear her voice.

  "Are you coming or what?"

  With confusion in my eyes, I move my arm and look at her. She has an arm stretched out to me.

  "Coming where?"

  She gives a light smile. "To remind you who they really are. Let’s go troon watching."

  I should’ve guessed by the name. Troon Watching is Ishani’s idea of fun. Her idea of a first date activity, to be precise. It involves sitting on a bench in the city centre - a bench that looks out onto the city’s queer corner.

  This is the party centre of the city, the pce where people go after they’ve pre-drunk at The Duck. It’s not that big, but there’s a reasonable assortment of queer clubs and bars - of varying vibes. Some of them favour the old gay men, who roll their eyes at the others. Some seem to exclusively attract hetero hen parties. And the rgest seems to attract nothing but staff sexual assault allegations.

  It’s not a part of the city - nor a part of the scene - that I particurly enjoy. I far prefer the quiet authenticity of The Duck.

  The game is really simple. Point and ugh privately about anybody who seems to be experimenting with their gender. Whether that be trans people, drag queens, or gay men getting a bit too fmboyant. It’s a game that Ishani seems to absolutely adore, as she’s in stitches, jeering about a broad-shouldered person in a crop top.

  She’s louder than she thinks she is, eyes fshing with glee every time she finds someone new to single out. Her grin is unsettling - it stretches wide and full, right up to her eyes, like this is the highlight of her entire week.

  It makes my stomach twist. I feel like I’m watching her peel the skin off people with her ughter.

  I don’t recognise any of the people we’re watching, but that somehow makes it worse. There’s no detachment. These aren’t faceless avatars or abstract types. They’re real people, just trying to have a night out - real people being lined up like targets at a shooting gallery.

  I can’t join in. I nod weakly, but my face is tight. The forced smile I try to maintain has long since stopped being convincing. Every time her arm nudges mine, I want to flinch. I want to get up and run.

  The worst part is that I keep thinking about The Duck. About how warm it is there - emotionally warm. How people look out for each other. How they listen and ugh and hug without judgement. How that space would never let someone like Ishani through the door.

  And I can’t help but think that’s where I should be. Helping wrap up for the night, listening to Rico's stupid jokes. Not here, pretending to be a monster beside a woman who clearly relishes in cruelty.

  "Come on, Hol, this is fun!" she says, nudging me in the arm. "These people genuinely think they’re like me and you."

  She’s so ignorant that she actually believes that. She believes that every person she’s pointed at is a trans woman. I’d guess the actual number is maybe three - at most - but I can’t say for certain. Because I can’t always tell. Nobody can.

  "I don’t know," I say, letting out a sigh. "Do you not think... this is a bit mean?"

  She scoffs, her head shaking in exaggerated disbelief.

  "Not at all. Hol, you need to understand-"

  She cuts herself off mid-sentence, her face lighting up like she’s just spotted a celebrity. Her arm extends, finger stabbing through the air.

  "Holy shit, look at that one!"

  And then she’s howling, doubled over in giddy, cruel ughter.

  I follow her finger - reluctantly - and spot her test victim.

  They're clearly male-bodied. But even before I’ve properly taken in the outfit, I know he’s not a trans woman. Everything about him screams discomfort. He’s draped in a bright pink, puffy dress that barely brushes past his thighs, a cheap synthetic blonde wig clinging awkwardly to his scalp. His face is caked with messy, garish make-up - the kind you only wear when you’re trying to provoke a reaction, or trying desperately to hide. His heels are far too tall, and he stumbles in them with each step like a newborn deer.

  His whole body nguage is a billboard of unease.

  My first assumption is that he lost a bet. A stag do humiliation, maybe. Some prank cooked up by cruel friends. But then something shifts. A flicker in my chest. A crawling suspicion. I keep watching him walk away, something unsettled gnawing at the back of my brain.

  And then it hits me.

  I shoot to my feet like I’ve been electrocuted.

  "What’s wrong?" Ishani asks, sudden concern threading her voice. But it doesn’t matter. Her concern means less than nothing.

  "I’m done for the night," I say, already striding away from her, into the swirl of neon lights and distorted basslines, vanishing into the crowd of clubs without a backward gnce. "Text me, yeah?"

  "Sure," she says behind me. Her voice has lost its gleam - irritated now. Slighted.

  I don’t respond. I’m already pushing into the current of bodies and coloured light. Because I know what I saw now. I know who I saw. And suddenly, this awful chin-wagging with Ishani feels pointless in comparison.

  His face was yered in paint, too much to register it immediately. But now that I’ve seen him, I can’t unsee him and the fear on his face.

  I don’t know why Jamie Fuckegg is here dressed like that. But I know one thing for certain - he doesn’t want to be.

  My breathing is shaky as I watch him disappear into the front doors of the rgest club in the quarter. The kind of pce where the floor sticks to your shoes and the straight girls squeal at each other in the toilets. He looked to be with somebody - a silhouette that slipped in just ahead of him - but I didn’t catch a glimpse. Still, whoever it was, Jamie didn’t look happy to be here.

  I can’t make sense of it. Jamie has repressed gender feelings - I’ve clocked that already. But this? This isn’t egg behaviour. He’s not dressed like a nervous trans girl testing out her first ever she/they outfit, nor is he dressed like a drag queen with a concept. He’s dressed like a parody. A cartoonish hybrid of both. Pink dress far too short, wig practically melting down the sides of his face, make-up spped on with no clear pn. It’s not expression - it’s humiliation. There’s nothing empowering in the way he’s holding himself. His shoulders were hunched like he was expecting to be ughed at.

  Something’s wrong.

  I duck into an alleyway and shift out of Holly, snapping into Niamh like it’s second nature - but I freeze before I step back out into the street.

  Jamie doesn’t need Niamh right now. That face comes with too much baggage. They’ve had lunches, drinks, lingering texts. She’s asked too many questions. She’s peeled away too much of the mask. If Jamie is having a crisis - or worse, if he’s being coerced - the st thing he needs is to be seen like this by someone he’s trying to impress. Niamh would be too close. It would be shame. Like seeing your therapist when you’re at rock bottom.

  Fortunately, Jamie has met another one of my faces. A face that he’s more distant from and a face that will be more understanding. I shift from Niamh into Cassie, still wearing Holly’s strawberry shirt. There’s not much I can do about that. I march confidently towards the club.

  "ID?" asks the bouncer.

  I march confidently back to the alleyway.

  A thirty-five-year-old woman marches out of it and is nodded through by the bouncer. Once through, I immediately shift back into Cassie.

  The pce is chaos. ABBA bres from the speakers - a remix of something unholy - and the whole floor is a nauseating mess of LED panels, grinding bodies, and men in mesh tops with nowhere to be. The scent of sticky cocktails and too many perfumes hangs like a cloud above the dancefloor.

  I grit my teeth and press forward. I worm my way through the crowd, looking around desperately for Jamie. He has to be here somewhere. He only just got here - he can’t have gone far.

  And then I spot him. At the far end of the room, sitting on a sofa in a roped-off VIP area, a man in his forties with slicked-back blond hair and a white button-up shirt sat next to him, with his arm wrapped around Jamie's ruffled shoulders. The music still pounds through the walls and floors, but in this velvet-lined pocket of the club, it feels eerily removed from the rest of the chaos - like a vacuum where nothing else can intrude. The man’s shirt gleams like fresh teeth in the pulsing lights, and Jamie is stiff beside him, dressed in that awful parody of femininity. His cheeks are flushed, but not from excitement. He looks like he’s trying to hold completely still - as if by not moving, he can stop this moment from being real.

  With a deep breath, I escape the crowd and hop over the rope. Both of them turn to look at me. Jamie’s eyes widen instantly - a fsh of terror blooming in his face. The man, though, removes his arm and rubs his hands together like he’s just been given a gift.

  "Well, ain’t this a surprise," he says, his voice floaty with excitement. "Long time, no see, Cass."

  Please ignore the fact that he knows my name.

  "Jamie, let’s go," I say, focusing entirely on the boy trembling before me - whose flickering eyes can’t seem to settle on anything for more than a second.

  "Hold your horses!" the man says, holding out a palm and giving me a smug little smirk. "The d wants to be here. He consented. You’re my good little sissy, aren’t you, James?"

  He turns to Jamie, who nods - barely. It’s a nod so slight it could’ve been missed entirely. It looks like a survival tactic more than agreement.

  "Jesus Christ, Martin, look at him!" I snap, pointing at the boy beside him, so tense he might crack.

  Please also ignore the fact that I know his name.

  He scoffs, unfazed. "He’s fine! This is exactly what he wanted."

  "Jamie, look at me," I say, dropping to my knees, ignoring the stickiness of the floor and the way the music still thrums beneath it. "If this is what you want, then tell me and I’ll go. But I know you - and I know this isn’t."

  His eyes flick up to meet mine - just for a second - before they flicker away again, lost in shame.

  "How would you know?" he whispers.

  I’m halfway through forming an answer - something gentle, something that might work - when Martin decides to crash through it.

  "Because she’s boring! She wants to bring politics into our fun, James. Wants to make you into a permanent sophisticated dy like she is, don’t ya, Cass?"

  Not today.

  Not after a morning in a Coalition cell, after hearing Lexi’s deadname roll off the tongue of a man who thought he was doing his job. Not after a night spent pying perfect date to a monster with a tragic backstory. I’ve endured enough bullshit.

  My face flushes hot and I lean in close, speaking through gritted teeth.

  "Stay out of this, you transphobic prick," I say, the words sharp enough to draw blood.

  Martin just beams. "Just like old times, eh? Do you miss it, Cass?"

  "Go fuck yourself."

  "Oh, I’ve missed this," he says, sending a kiss toward me, which I bat out of the air with more force than it deserves.

  I turn back to Jamie.

  "I... did ask for this," he says, quietly - voice cracking under the weight of regret.

  "And consent can be withdrawn," I say, my hand nding gently on his knee. "Jamie, just say the word, and I’ll make this go away."

  Martin falls back dramatically, ughing like a child who’s just pulled off a prank. Evidently quite drunk. "She’s going to take your balls, d. Don’t fall for it!"

  We both ignore him. Jamie looks up, meeting my gaze and maintaining it. After about thirty seconds, he closes his eyes and speaks.

  "I want to leave, Cassie."

  "Then, let’s go!" I say, grabbing him by the hand and trying to pull him to his feet. But he remains seated, his face red.

  "He has my keys," he says.

  I pause. "What? Your ft keys?"

  He looks away. I specifically catch his eyes shoot downwards, to the lower half of his body.

  "Oh, for fuck’s sake," I say, realising what he means, as I sm my palm into my face.

  Martin doesn’t have Jamie’s house keys. He has far more sensitive keys. The keys to his crown jewels, one might say. I rub my eyes with my hands, the neon purples and pulsing pinks of the club making it hard to think straight. The low thud of bass drills into my skull as I try to figure out how the hell I’m going to deal with this situation. Probably with violence?

  "Give me the keys, Martin," I say, to the man who is still lying on his back, chuckling.

  I hate his wrinkled white face and his piercing brown eyes. I hate the smug look on his small, pink lips - fshing a glimpse of his perfect teeth. He looks at me like I’m dirt. Like I should be as humiliated as Jamie is.

  He shakes his head, tutting. "You know the rules, Cass. He signed a contract and everything!"

  For the first time, I cast a judgemental look at Jamie. What a fucking idiot. But I can’t be too harsh on him. We’ve all done stupid shit. I turn back to Martin and fsh my hand towards him, mimicking a sp that doesn’t connect.

  His perfect posture cracks for the first time as he flinches - a surprised look on his face. His smugness transfers to me. But he corrects himself immediately.

  "Violence ain’t the solution," he says, in a lecturing tone. "You think I’d bring them out with me? Risk losing them and letting poor James go celibate forever? I’m not a monster, Cassandra."

  I scowl. "Where are they?"

  "At home," he says, shrugging. "And that’s where they’re staying."

  I gnce at the cowering Jamie, consumed with regret, embarrassment, and the overwhelming urge to sink into the ground and never come back. His shoulders are trembling, his limbs rigid - as though he’s bracing against invisible impact. I don’t think he’d survive a trip to A&E to get any contraptions forced off without dying of embarrassment. And the police are out of the question. Martin understands this too - hence the slyness on his lips.

  "What do you want?" I say, hands on my hips. "Because I’m not letting you continue this with him."

  He shrugs. "Then let me continue with you."

  I scoff. "Once again. Go fuck yourself, Martin."

  "One night," he says, holding up a finger. "Come on, Cass. We had so much fun together. I’ve had so many amazing girls, but none of them with talents like yours."

  I gnce at Jamie, hoping he won’t read into the word talents - but then again, why would he? It would be quite a leap of logic to assume the talents were the ability to change your body’s shape into exactly those asked by your Dominant.

  My eyebrows sharpen. "One night. Monday or Tuesday - I’m not skipping work."

  "Monday," he says, nodding, a sickening smile on his face. "But I ain’t giving up the key until then. James can survive a weekend without a wank. Can’t you, d?"

  Jamie gives an extremely faint nod. He won’t look at me now - presumably because he feels too guilty about what I’m offering in exchange for his freedom, but is too afraid of his situation to beg me not to. Because he knows he needs me.

  Truth be told, a weekend without his penis is probably a suitable punishment for being so stupid.

  "Fine," I say, shaking my head in disbelief at how tonight has transpired. "But I’m not who I was back then, Martin. Don’t expect me to cling to your every word."

  That doesn’t dissuade him. He rubs his hands together. "Oh, Cass - I’ve always loved a brat."

  I roll my eyes, turning away from him. Done with him. Only for now, annoyingly. There’s tension burning in my chest now, not sadness. The time for despair is done. On Monday, I’m going to rip this man’s dick off.

  I reach a hand out for Jamie, who grabs it without looking at me. I pull him to his feet and wrap an arm around his shoulder as we walk through the club. He’s flushed and frozen, all his energy focused on keeping it together. The air reeks of stale sweat, cheap perfume, and the ghost of someone else’s vomit. Around us, the dancefloor pulses with light and noise, but it all feels miles away. We’re not part of this. We’re just ghosts moving through it.

  Nobody casts Jamie a second gnce. As awful as Martin is, he did choose an environment where risk was minimal. The crowd assumes Jamie’s an awful drag queen or an early transitioner, and they leave him alone. The trip home will be trickier. But I’m not letting him do it alone.

  When we make it out of the main room - leaving the sound of Carly Rae Jepsen behind us - he starts talking again. Quietly, and full of nerves, but he’s not broken. The sound of his ridiculous heels clicking unevenly along the pavement makes the whole scene feel even more surreal.

  "Thank you," he says, his voice barely audible over the hum of the nightlife. "You didn’t have to do that."

  "I did," I say, firmly. "We’ve got to look out for each other."

  He squirms at the word we, his posture tightening, but he doesn’t question it. Doesn’t ask who exactly I mean. Maybe he’s too tired. Maybe he already knows.

  "How did you... um, know Martin?" he says.

  We’re out of the club now - the night cooler than expected, the streets of the queer quarter narrow and vaguely sticky with spilled drink and city grime. Jamie doesn’t live far, and ordering a taxi has the potential to be even more degrading - trapped in a metal box with a stranger who might decide tonight is the night for a hundred invasive questions. Better to risk walking. Just us and the dark.

  "Another time," I say, giving him an awkward smile. "It’s not a part of my life that I’m proud of."

  He gives a faint ugh. "Yeah, I get that."

  "But seriously, Jamie, you-"

  I don’t get to even start my lecture before a shrill voice cuts through the night like a bde.

  "You!"

  I stop dead. My body tenses, adrenaline hot in my veins. Ishani is striding toward us, her eyes locked on me, a snarl twisted across her face. I can feel the strawberry-print shirt clinging to my back like a neon sign - Holly’s exact outfit from earlier tonight. Fuck.

  "Of all the fucking people to run into," she growls, shaking her head like she can’t believe her bad luck. Her distress is pin to see - flushed cheeks, wild eyes, breath coming in uneven bursts. She’s been brooding since I left her, building up steam. "It’s the fucking tranny that poisoned my girlfriend’s brain."

  My jaw clenches. She’s calling Holly her girlfriend. As if that pathetic little dinner counted for anything. I want to ugh at the absurdity, but Cassie wouldn’t know what she's referring to. I swallow the ugh before it escapes.

  Jamie twitches beside me, the slur hitting him like a sp. He’s frozen, his whole body recoiling. Ishani notices. Of course she notices.

  "And fuck me, you are disgusting," she says, stepping in close, zeroing in on him like a bloodhound. Her eyes are alight with rage and the sick thrill of superiority. "You’re more perverted than the rest of them. An actual fucking fr-"

  She doesn’t finish the sentence.

  My fist connects with her jaw before I’ve fully decided to move. She drops like a bag of bricks, hitting the pavement with a pitiful gasp. She doesn’t try to stand. Just stays there, curled in on herself, whimpering like she’s the victim in all this.

  "Go to therapy," I say, my voice low and venomous.

  I force myself not to spit. I don’t need to.

  I grab Jamie’s arm and pull him with me. He follows wordlessly, still trembling, still shell-shocked. The street noise swells around us - the thud of bass leaking from the clubs, the slurred ughter of strangers, the hiss of night buses pulling away.

  As we round the corner, a woman’s voice calls after us - sharp, demanding. I think I might hear something resembling a slur, but I’m not sure. Something in the voice sounds familiar. Impossibly familiar.

  But neither of us turns around.

  We barely speak as we finish the walk to his house. The silence isn’t awkward - it’s something quieter than that. Something almost peaceful. The chaos of the night has burned itself out, and now we’re just two people walking through streets sticky with spilled drinks and neon light, letting the silence settle between us like dust. His ridiculous heels click slightly unevenly on the pavement, a subtle limp in his stride that I clock immediately. It’s not shame that makes him walk like that anymore. It’s discomfort. Likely the cage. But he holds his head higher than he did in the club, and I take comfort in that small change.

  Even through the quiet, I can feel the weight of his gratitude. It radiates off him in gnces - those small smiles he keeps sneaking me when he thinks I’m not looking. In his eyes, Cassie is something close to divine. She’s the woman who stepped between him and danger. The one who tore the reins out of Martin’s hands and nded a punch on a TERF before the night was out. I was his fucking hero. And maybe... maybe I should let myself feel like one. I sat through hours of bile with Ishani. I offered myself up to Martin like a mb to the sughter. Neither for my benefit, but for the benefit of others. And maybe I’m not your average, human woman. Maybe I’m better than that. I'm a fucking superhuman.

  It’s only as we reach the door that it hits me - Cassie shouldn’t have known where Jamie lived. And yet, I’ve been leading the way. I see his gaze flicker for half a second, like he’s on the verge of questioning it... but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s already started to confuse Cassie and Niamh in his head. Or maybe he just thinks Niamh’s the type to share too much.

  "Thank you again," he says, standing in the glow of the hallway light. The pink dress bunches uncomfortably at his sides. He adjusts it, but I can tell it’s not the fabric that’s bothering him - it’s the metal beneath.

  I shake my head. "Really, don’t worry about it. And please don’t be embarrassed. It happens to the best of us."

  He lingers by the door, unwilling to let the moment end.

  "How did you know?" he asks, his gaze dropping to the pavement.

  "Know what? About Martin?"

  He shakes his head. "No, I mean... How did you know that you were trans?"

  I smile. A small, bittersweet twist of the lips. It’s not an easy question - not one I can answer honestly without tearing the entire web of identities I’ve spun apart. But I can offer something adjacent to the truth. A truth he might one day understand.

  "It just felt more right," I say, shrugging like it’s nothing. "I felt more natural as a woman. More confident. Happier than I ever did as a boy."

  "Okay," he says, nodding. But there’s a shadow behind the word. Shame. I hear it in the tightness of his voice. I see it in the way he shrinks just slightly, as if the thought itself is something to be embarrassed of.

  "But Jamie, you weren’t a woman tonight. I need you to understand that. He didn’t want you as a woman, he wanted you as a toy. Something for people to ugh at. You weren’t supposed to feel comfortable."

  He sighs and nods. "I know."

  I give a weak smile, my lips barely bending. "But - and I don’t want to be presumptuous - if you do ever want to actually explore your gender, in a safe way, let me know. Or let Niamh know."

  He flinches slightly at Niamh’s name, but nods anyway. "Could I, um, get your number?"

  "Sure," I say, pulling out my phone to get it.

  It’s only as the phone leaves my pocket that I realise that can’t happen. He already has my number saved on his phone. Saved under Niamh. I can’t give him the same number. But I can’t give him a fake number either. When I look up, with panic in my eyes, I’m surprised to see that he’s already looking shocked. I haven’t given him the number yet, but he’s already looking at me like something is wrong.

  "Your phone..." he says, looking at the mashed-up metal of the phone that I shoved into my eye socket a week ago. "It’s..."

  He doesn’t know the words to use, because the situation is incomprehensible to him. It’s a phone that’s broken in the exact same way Niamh’s was, when he saw her on Tuesday night as we Mario Karted. In an impossibly simir way. And any chance I had of hiding it as a coincidence vanishes when I instinctively try to shove it back into my pocket.

  His face sours immediately, backing away. "What’s going on, Cassie? Is this some kind of game?"

  I watch him cower backwards, looking as timid as he did under Martin’s grip. He’s going to go inside and regress further, believing that the two girls who helped him unravel his identity were pying an eborate trick on him.

  I could lie. Say that Niamh gave me her phone or come up with some other convoluted tale. But I don’t. And it might be because I’m still reeling from cocktails. It might be because I’m traumatised from running around Lexi with lie after lie. Or it might just be because I’m sick of pying games. But I only see one solution. One way to fix this without ruining him.

  Everything inside me snaps taut. The buzzing of the streetlights above prickles at my skin, the distant ughter of students washes faintly through the night. I feel sick with panic, wired with it - but also suddenly, strangely sure.

  I close my eyes, take one breath, and shift.

  It’s like finally surfacing from underwater. The air tastes right. My body resets, falling into the familiar shape of Niamh like it’s always meant to be there. When I open my eyes, I see him stagger back, his entire body frozen.

  His mouth falls open. His face is pale. His understanding of reality is trying to reboot.

  "No," I say, now in Niamh’s voice - lighter, warmer, real. I raise a hand gently, as if trying to calm a frightened animal. "It’s not a trick."

  He stares like he might never look away again.

  "What the fuck."

  LilAgarwal