Content Warnings:

  SpoilerGender dysphoria; mild transphobia; animal cruelty.

  [colpse]XI. Box of ChicksOn the edge of the city, there’s a rge, industrial farm. One of the workers there is a 30-year-old man with a scruffy beard and a perpetually dirty face. He’s good at his job and does everything with passion. He works hard and gets great results, but most importantly - he cares. He cares about everything he does and is emotionally invested in every element. So, it isn’t hugely out of pce when he receives a call from his boss - letting him know that he deserves the morning off. A thank-you for all his hard work. It gives him a chance to hang out with his wife, who works Monday to Friday and resents the fact that he has to go deal with the chicks on Saturday mornings. He’s very grateful.

  Of course, he turns up to work anyway. Gets out of his car and moves into the building, slightly more sluggishly than usual. As if he’s forgotten where everything is. The sharp stink of ammonia and old feed thickens the air inside - choking and pungent.

  If somebody looked closely at him, they might notice that something’s wrong. That his eyebrows are a slightly different shape, or that his eyes are off by a shade. They might notice that he doesn’t really know where he’s going. But nobody pays that much attention, and anybody who does notice anything writes it off instinctively as a Saturday morning hangover. If anybody deserves to have one, it’s him. After all the hard work he’s put in - he deserves a good Friday night.

  What they might not be able to expin - had they seen it - is the box he brings with him. A box that’s empty at first, but that he stuffs with male chicks. Ones that are primed to be destroyed as part of the gendering process. You know, they kill the male chicks immediately? They can’t y eggs, and so they’re useless - a pointless waste of resources. Assigned dead at birth.

  He doesn’t feel much as he moves through the reeking corridors, humming softly under his breath - almost dancing between shadows.

  If somebody had seen him, they might’ve thought he’d grown a conscience. That he’d been enlisted by some activists, or that he’d lost his mind. But nobody sees him fill the box with the little yellow things. Nobody that watches him leave thinks anything of it. They don’t question what’s in the brown box that he carries, or why he walks with such a spring in his step. A walk that’s bouncier and more feminine than his usual loafing about.

  And absolutely nobody sees him transform into a beautiful, slender woman with dazzling blonde hair before she - I, as Niamh - climbs into the passenger seat of Jamie’s car.

  "Let’s roll."

  Okay, yeah. I skipped ahead a little bit. Let’s rewind.

  I don’t think Jamie said anything on the journey from his doorstep to his studio, but the invitation was clear. He was shaken beyond belief - though too shaken to let himself walk away. That was the concern, that he’d storm off before I had a chance to expin anything. But how could he storm off? I’d just done something impossible right in front of him, and if he left without an expnation - he’d never be able to look at the world the same way again.

  So, we went up to his room. He flicked the light on, casting a warm yellow glow that felt too gentle for the tension twisting between us. He clicked the kettle to boil and immediately forgot about it, the motion purely muscle memory. Only after he’d slumped down onto the couch, palms dragging across his face, did he speak.

  "Niamh, what the fuck is going on?"

  I take a heavy breath, hands slightly shaking at my sides. My fingers clench, trying to mimic the control I wish I had. I don’t know if I regret doing this - is it insane that it actually feels easier than I thought it would? That the overwhelming feeling in my stomach is shame that I haven’t done this with Lexi yet? That it would’ve been so easy to do. But this is different. I’ve been lying to Jamie for just over a week; I’ve been lying to Lexi for years.

  "I don’t really know what to tell you," I say, rotating on the spot, trying to keep my body loose and casual, despite the buzz of alcohol still humming under my skin. "I’m Cassie."

  "How?" he says, squinting, his voice high and tight. "You... just changed your appearance like that?"

  "Like this?" I say, and with a snap, I shift. Cassie takes Niamh’s pce in the space of a breath. He jolts backwards on the couch so hard the frame creaks, his hand flying to his mouth.

  "Fuck," he breathes, eyes wide as saucers, wonder flooding his expression like a child seeing a magic trick for the first time.

  I can practically see the thoughts whirring in his head. He doesn’t understand the extent of this. To him, I’m Niamh - but with a secret power where I can transform into a trans woman. It’ll take time for him to realise that Niamh doesn’t exist. That I don’t have an easy default. But I let him think it for now because I need him to feel comforted. I don’t want him to look at me and see a monster.

  The word monster flicks across my brain like a burn. Oh, shit - I thought Jamie could’ve been a vampire. How did I forget that? I narrow my eyes at him, watching him again. But everything he’s giving me reads as completely human. The wig’s still on, his pink dress slightly askew, and there’s no sign of recognition in his posture. If he’s a vampire, he’s the best actor I’ve ever met.

  "So, like..." he stammers, still covering his mouth with one hand. "What are you, Niamh?"

  I don’t correct the name. Not right now.

  "Biologically? I don’t know," I say, shrugging like the answer doesn’t matter. "But I’m still Niamh. And I’m still Cassie. I didn’t mean for you to meet both of them, I didn’t intentionally lie to you..." He’s quiet, and I don’t bme him. His gaze stays locked on me like he’s trying to decode an optical illusion, while I can only meet it in short, guilty bursts. I can see the gears turning in his head - rewinding every conversation, every strange moment, every time Niamh had seemed just a little too intuitive on trans issues, or Cassie a little too knowledgeable about his existence. It’s a complex puzzle with a sickeningly simple answer.

  Jamie rubs his face with both hands, like he’s trying to clear fog from a mirror, and then tosses his wig aside. It nds somewhere near the pile of pizza boxes in the corner, forgotten almost immediately. The thing was cheap and clearly itchy.

  "Fuck, Niamh... This is crazy. I don’t really know what to say."

  I offer him a weak smile, shifting my weight uneasily on the balls of my feet. "If you want me to leave and never come back, Jamie, I’ll completely understand."

  He shakes his head immediately, almost before I’ve finished speaking. "No, not at all." His voice is thin but steady. "I mean, this is insane. Completely insane. But after tonight? Niamh, you could be Satan himself and I’d still feel indebted to you. You saved me."

  I look up, meeting his eyes. It’s true - if I was going to "come out" to him, then tonight was the perfect night to do so. I’d made him feel like he owed me after saving him from Martin and Ishani. My heart pangs guiltily, whispering that this is just another manipution tactic, but I ignore it. Because I can’t hear that right now. One step of redemption at a time, Cass.

  "Do you, um, want to talk about that?" I ask, lowering myself onto the couch beside him. The warmth of the room sinks into my skin like steam, calming, anchoring. For once, I don’t feel like a threat.

  He shakes his head, but the words spill out anyway. "I don’t know. I’ve been talking to him online for a while. We were just pying... and it was fun. But it kept getting more and more extreme, and I didn’t know how to say stop."

  I reach out and rest my hand on top of his, offering comfort without expectation. But then I remember Ishani’s hands on mine the night before - how wrong and cloying that had felt - and I withdraw, leaning my shoulder gently into his instead.

  "I know the feeling," I say softly. "But you’re safe now. He’s gone."

  "He’s not gone though," Jamie mutters. "He just has you now instead of me."

  I shift back so I can meet his eyes again, offering a thin smile. "No offence, Jamie, but he’s going to have a much harder time with me. And he only has a night. The second I get those keys I’m out of there."

  He sighs, his shoulders slumping under the weight of something old and familiar. "Forget the keys," he says. "It’s not worth it, Niamh. I don’t even like my dick."

  I can’t help it - I ugh, a short, involuntary sound that bubbles out of me.

  Jamie rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up! Not like that."

  "Egg," I say, nudging him in the side with my elbow, still grinning.

  "I don’t even know what that means."

  It didn’t take long for Jamie to fall asleep, still wearing his costume. I can’t bme him - his night was probably worse than mine. Ishani was awful, but I was a fellow predator. Jamie spent his evening as prey, and that is far more exhausting.

  He’s curled up on his bed now, breathing slow and soft. The wig’s been tossed aside, but the ridiculous dress clings to him like the ghost of the night he just survived. He looks vulnerable like this - not the brash, questionably edgy figure I once worried might be a monster. Just a boy. A fragile, soft-edged boy (for now) who should never have been left alone with men like Martin. I want to keep him safe.

  Still wearing Cassie’s face, I gather my things and am nearly out of his door when I hesitate. I don’t want to go home.

  I didn’t sleep there st night, and I don’t want to sleep there tonight either. Going back to my room - for more than a quick change - feels like regression. A surrender to routine. A slide back into bitterness, detachment, cruelty. And it’s not like I’ve changed that much over the past two days - I’m still a monster. But I’ve taken baby steps. I told Jordan about Margaret; I punched Ishani in the face; and I revealed the truth to Jamie.

  If I waltz back into my cell like a good little metamorphic humanoid, will I forget those steps ever happened?

  Besides, I’m meeting up with Jamie first thing anyway.

  So I pce myself back on his couch - shrinking down slightly to better fit the space. It’s not the most comfortable physically, but I feel safe here. The room is softly lit, yellow from the single mp still burning. A line of leafy pnts decorates the windowsill. Real ones. The kind that need watering. A dreamcatcher swings slightly above the curtain rail, dancing in the faint draft from the window.

  I set an arm for early dawn - I have to see a man about some chickens in the morning.

  Then I close my eyes and dream guiltily of Lexi Fontaine. Laughing, and crying, and covered in blood.

  Okay, are you suitably caught up now? Can we return to the cold open? Great.

  I make Jamie pull over after about a mile. The road is quiet, fnked by frost-gzed fields that glisten faintly beneath the early grey light. We haven’t passed another car in ten minutes. When I step out, the cold air hits me like a sp - sharp, invigorating - but it’s still a relief compared to the stench of the outfit I’m wearing: a filthy brown jacket, too heavy and padded in all the wrong pces, and stiff brown trousers that make me feel like I’m back in some grizzled teenage boy’s body. I peel the yers off, practically wincing with every rustle, and slip into something more familiar.

  There was only one item of clothing in Jamie’s wardrobe that was suitable for Niamh (I'm done with that strawberry shirt), and he had to promise me that he hadn’t done anything with Martin in it. Even with that comfort, it felt weird wearing the pink dress of shame. It makes me feel guilty how much better it looks on me.

  Back in the car, Jamie keeps his eyes firmly on the road. His hands are steady on the wheel, but his shoulders are tense. The little bobblehead on his dash nods obliviously with every bump in the road. It’s warm inside, the faint citrus scent of his air freshener blending with the quiet hum of the engine.

  "Right, Scotnd - here we come," Jamie says. He’s making a real effort to sound upbeat, but I catch the slight edge of nervous energy still hanging off him like mist. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed about the dress - or if he’s too stunned by how well I wear it. Either way, he avoids looking at me, and I can’t decide if that makes me want to ugh or hide.

  A floating little giggle escapes me anyway - cssic Niamh. "Are you really not going to ask why I have a box of chicks?"

  He shrugs, his face scrunching into mock confusion. "You told me you were delivering a Vinted package."

  I look over at him, disbelief radiating from my whole body. Is he serious? His mouth twitches into a grin, and then he lowers his gaze to the dashboard, trying to contain it.

  "I assumed you’d tell me," he says. "And if you didn’t, I assumed it was because it was too embarrassing. Like, you have to eat them to shape-shift or something."

  "No," I say, smiling and shaking my head. "I’m not going to eat these chicks."

  He nods, content - until I kill the smile with my next words.

  "But we are going to feed them to a goblin girl who eats children," I say, ft and deadpan.

  He stiffens, gaze fixed on the road. For a solid thirty seconds, we’re bathed in silence - not awkward, just... full. I can hear the ticking of the indicator before he merges onto the bypass. A crow wings zily over the field beside us. When he speaks again, it’s with wary precision.

  "Right, okay," he says. "Do you want to, maybe, eborate on that?"

  I keep my tone calm, like I’m Lexi expining a particurly niche sub-genre of anime. "Okay, so there’s a species of creatures known as Trowkin. They’re short, rowdy, and they eat young things. The younger they are and more complex the life form, the more satiating the feed is. I’ve, somehow, become responsible for a young Trowkin and want to make sure she is well-fed on newborn chicks, so she doesn’t start going after anything more... reckless."

  I don’t even need to look to feel the horrified stare he throws at me. He’s not as good a driver as Sadie, so I can feel the car shifting off course slightly whenever he looks over.

  His foot lifts slightly off the accelerator. "She would eat babies?!" he gasps. "Niamh - how the hell did you become responsible for this thing?"

  I grit my teeth. I hadn’t prepared myself for the possibility that Jamie would be closed-minded on this, but in retrospect - why wouldn’t he be? To a human, the idea of hurting an infant is the most sinister thing imaginable. I’m sure sheep feel the same way when humans sughter their mbs. Yes, I’m being facetious, you can’t compare the sentience of a human and a farm animal - but I find it hard to believe that if Trowkin babies were delicious, humans wouldn’t have started an industry centred around eating them. They’re bastards like that.

  "I kinda got her father locked up," I say, shrugging as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. "And, yes, if she was starving - she might consider human young. That’s why I’m going to make sure she’s fed. This box-" I shake the box of chicks gently in my hand, peeps chanting through the air, "-will keep her going for a while."

  A strange sound escapes Jamie’s mouth, something between a grunt and a cough of disbelief. "Niamh, I don’t want to be crass, but if this thing is a danger to children, shouldn’t we..."

  His voice trails off, but I let the silence settle and stretch, not pnning to help him fill it. I watch his fingers tighten a little around the wheel, his knuckles paling as he finds the words he feels are safe enough to say.

  "...make sure she’s... not?"

  I scoff. "And how do we do that, Jamie?"

  He lets out a breath and raises both hands briefly off the wheel in a slow, sheepish gesture. "I don’t know. But... she’s dangerous, right?"

  "I’m dangerous," I snap, tapping a hand against my chest. My voice rises more than I intend, but I don’t stop it. "If I wanted to, think of all the damage I could cause with what I can do. Should I be locked up?"

  There’s a silence that hangs just long enough to sting. I feel jittery, fingers tapping against my thigh, unsure if I’ve gone too far. I watch his face in profile, hoping to catch some sense of which way his heart’s pulling. His lips part as if to respond, then press together again.

  He exhales slowly and shakes his head. "No, you shouldn’t be locked up, Niamh... But it’s different, isn’t it? Because you’re..."

  "Human-looking?"

  "No!" he says, too quickly, then winces. "I mean, yes, kinda?"

  "I think that’s very close-minded of you, Jamie."

  He shrugs, small and apologetic. "This is all new for me, cut me some sck! I didn’t even know this stuff existed yesterday."

  I smile faintly, letting the tension in my chest rex by a millimetre. I gnce out the window at the moors - endless grey and brown, curling away beneath a bnket of weak morning frost. It’s peaceful in a bleak way. Jamie’s hands are back on the wheel, his posture cautious but calm, his bobblehead bouncing with every uneven patch of road. The heater hums gently beneath our awkward silence.

  "That’s fair," I concede. "It’s just that I’m pretty sensitive about all of the dangerous stuff. That’s what they called me for years when I was locked up."

  "You were locked up?"

  His voice softens, and I can feel his attention flicker towards me even though he doesn’t look away from the road. I shrink down a little in my seat, arms folded loosely over my p.

  "Yes."

  "By who?"

  I pause. The words aren’t hard to say, but I don’t want to. Still, I owe him now. He deserves some truth. "By The Coalition. They’re this global organisation who handle... things like Trowkin. Things like me."

  "What? Like Torchwood?"

  I let out a ugh before I can stop myself. It rings high and amused in the quiet car. "Much less gay."

  "The X Files?"

  "Jesus, I said less gay."

  "Men in Bck?" I nod. "Yeah. That’ll do."

  He frowns. "So, how did you escape?"

  I look down at my p, the cold air making my fingers feel stiff. It’s the only part of me that feels cold in this car - everything else is warm. I don’t want to admit that I don’t know. That I gave away a part of myself because I thought it was too painful to carry.

  Thankfully, I can avoid opening that can of worms in front of Jamie. "I didn’t. I just work for them now."

  He literally double-takes at that reveal, his head jerking to look at me and back to the road, eyes wide with disbelief. "What? You’re a fucking Man in Bck?"

  "I’m more like the pug," I say, smirking - the tone light, but there’s a flicker of something more bitter in my gut. The joke always nds, but the truth of it still stings.

  He ughs, bobbing his head in that dopey, endearing way of his. Then pauses. A question bubbles up that he’s clearly a bit embarrassed to voice. "If you wanted to, would you actually be able to become like a dog or something?"

  "Kinda," I say, giving a small shrug. His fascination doesn’t bother me - if anything, it’s a relief. He treats it like a superpower, not an aberration. "I don’t want to go rearranging my organs, in case I damage something permanently and can’t repair it, so I wouldn’t ever like... fully become a dog or whatever, but... I could certainly give myself dog characteristics, if I wanted to."

  I hear an invisible Lexi in my head, chastising me as the only trans woman who could have this ability and not use it to go full puppygirl.

  He nods, mulling that over like it’s the coolest thing he’s ever heard. "Cool. And obviously, you were able to turn into a man before."

  "Mhm," I say, the sound clipped. Those bodies always sit wrong on me - like they don’t fit properly. I never know what to do with my hands.

  "But you live as a woman? Like, completely?"

  The words feel like déjà vu. For a second, I could be back in Sadie’s car, miles away from where we are now. But that conversation left me feeling cold. This one doesn’t.

  "Yes," I say, nodding gently. "My long-term identities are all women. I just feel more comfortable like that."

  "How did you find that out?" he asks, voice soft, like he’s treading carefully on sacred ground.

  "Trial and error," I say, feigning ease. "I didn’t realise how uncomfortable I was in my male identities until I compared it to being a woman. It just felt more right. Not perfect, but better."

  It’s not the whole truth. And he should be the st person on earth right now that I feel uncomfortable revealing the whole truth to. But I don't.

  He scrunches his face, staring ahead, clearly working through thoughts he can’t untangle yet. I let him. This conversation isn’t about me - not really. "That’s cool. So, um, Cassie is... she’s trans. But you could just make her a woman if you wanted to, couldn’t you?"

  I scowl before I can stop myself. The air stiffens. "Okay, first of all - Cassie is a woman. Trans women are women, Jamie."

  He nods quickly, almost flinching. "Yeah, my bad."

  "And secondly - because she’s just as beautiful as any cis woman. In fact, she’s more beautiful. Because she fights for her femininity every single day. She doesn't take it for granted, she cares for it and it shines brighter."

  He frowns, shame creeping into his features. "But don’t you get scared that somebody will, like... attack you?"

  "I mean, sure," I say, voice steady. "But it’s worth it. It has to be."

  "Even with all of those... murders that have been happening?"

  My head whips to him so fast I’m surprised my neck doesn’t snap. But I see only fear on his face - the quiet, helpless kind. The kind I’m too familiar with. There’s no guilt. No suspicion. Just the hollow ache of someone afraid to be in the world.

  "I’m working on that," I say, meeting his gaze with as much conviction as I can fake. "Trying to make it stop."

  He nods. "Well, that’s good to know."

  The pause after that is long. We roll past empty moornd, frost feathering the grass, the sky still silver and uncertain.

  "I don’t know if I need to say this to you," he finally says, his voice trembling. "Because I’m pretty sure you know it already, but I need to say it. I don’t really understand this gender stuff at all, and I really don’t want to upset anybody... I don’t want to hurt you. And I think I might’ve done that st night with my stupid kink shit, but I... Fuck, Niamh, I don’t know."

  I smile, slow and soft - the kind of smile you give a wounded animal. I want to hold his hand, but I can’t. I want to pull him into a hug, but I won’t risk the wheel. "It’s okay. You haven’t hurt me. Keep going."

  He nods, and I can see his eyes welling up with stress. "I don’t know what I am, Niamh. I don’t think I can be trans. I mean... look at me. But I think I want to be? Like, I would be so much happier if I was born a woman. Or, if I had a more feminine body... maybe then I’d consider it, but... I really don’t know."

  As he peaks, I do look at him. His jaw is tight, and he’s gripping the wheel like he’s afraid it might float away. His face is sharp from male puberty, but it’s not unworkable - he’s full of shit. He’s not this hideous, monstrous being he’s imagining. And I’ve known enough girls to know the brainworms that are festering inside him right now. It’s the look of deep belief in your own exception: that you, and you alone, are the one person HRT won’t help. The one person too far gone. The only fucking trans woman who isn’t valid. I can see them, clear as day.

  We’re quiet for a while. The car thrums beneath us, wheels humming across frost-rimmed roads. The early morning sun is rising now, filling the car with a warm yellow glow that reflects softly against his flushed cheeks. It feels oddly peaceful in here, like a new breath after being underwater for too long.

  "So what you’re saying," I say, careful not to disrupt the mood, "is that if you removed all of the logistics from it - you’d be happier as a woman?"

  He nods, instantly. "Yes."

  "Then you’re trans," I say, watching him grimace. "That doesn’t mean you have to transition," I add quickly, gentle but firm, watching his expression flicker with something like arm. "You can live the rest of your life repressed and closeted, but you need to acknowledge that it’s there. And that it’s there because you’re afraid."

  His eyes flick towards me, scowling now. "It’s not because I’m afraid, Niamh. It’s because of my body and-"

  "No," I say, not harsh, but certain. "I’m sorry, but you’re using it as an excuse. Maybe you don’t realise it, but you are. Because I know, deep down, that you’d rather be an ugly woman than a man."

  "And how could you possibly know that?"

  I shrug, aiming for levity. "Am I wrong?"

  He doesn’t answer. He just sits in the silence, letting the words settle. It’s a long, pulsing quiet - and I don’t push. Even the radio seems to know not to interrupt, pying something bubbly and synth-heavy in the background. I keep my eyes forward, only stealing gnces at him through the corner of my vision.

  "And for the record," I say, voice softer now, "I don’t think you’d make an ugly woman. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m pretty good at assessing bodies. As you can probably imagine."

  He doesn’t answer immediately. Several long miles pass under our wheels, until he finally murmurs a soft: "Thanks."

  I gnce over. His face is unreadable. He’s still driving steadily, hands tight on the wheel, but something has cracked in his expression. A softness. An edge of hope peeking through all the shame.

  "I guess... maybe you’re right," he says. "I don’t know, I need to think about it. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Fuck, this is hard..."

  "I know," I say, warm as I can be. I reach out and let my fingers rest lightly against his arm, careful not to startle or distract him. "But it’s, ultimately, your decision. If you do decide to move ahead, then you do so at your own pace."

  We drive like that for a while, his skin warm under my fingertips, the world rolling by in golden silence. Then, just as we hit the next marker sign for Stirling-

  "I think, um," he says, then shakes his head, stopping himself.

  "What?"

  A deep breath. His grip on the steering wheel tightens.

  "Could we try out pronouns, maybe?" Jamie says, voice soft but steady. "Just for this trip?"

  My whole chest lights up. It feels like a wire snapped inside me, letting joy flood out in waves. That fucker Martin smashed poor Jamie to pieces. And now she’s cmbering to rebuild herself. And I’m so fucking proud.

  I beam at her, practically vibrating with excitement, and say: "Of course!"

  I don’t tell her, but I can already picture the look on Lexi’s face when I tell her I cracked the egg.

  Now, I am more than happy - ecstatic, even - to use Jamie’s correct pronouns. I’m over the moon for her.

  Though, it’s come to my attention that the predominant interaction of this trip, speaking with Esmeralda, is not going to involve Jamie to a significant degree.

  You may have noticed that the English nguage appears to transcend dimensions. Gill spoke English, Wayfarer speaks English... except, they don’t.

  The Interstitial Language Modutor (ILM) was a revolutionary technology which came about fairly recently. It was first trialled in 2010 and then officially unched across The Coalition in 2015. It’s a neural impnt that connects to a Coalition-owned database that stores nguage data, and uses some form of machine learning to transte it into the host’s preferred nguage, in real time. Even cleverer, it’s able to modify their speech without them even realising.

  It’s limited - it’ll typically only work on nguages that The Coalition has encountered before, unless they’re simir enough to a known one - but very effective. Effective enough that you won’t ever need to ask again.

  Wayfarer, presumably, has his own version of this technology - given that he was able to communicate with Rico and the others. Given that he’s spent his life travelling across dimensions, that would make sense.

  But I’m not able to offer Jamie access to this technology. Which means that he won’t be able to understand Esmeralda and she won’t be able to understand him.

  Fuck. I mean that she won’t be able to understand Esmeralda, and Esmeralda won’t be able to understand her.

  I thought I was better at this.

  She. Her. She. Her.

  She parks the car.

  She gets out of the car.

  I follow her out of the car.

  Okay, I’ve got this now.

  "I’m going to have to change face," I say, watching her for a reaction. "Into somebody you haven’t met yet."

  She frowns but shrugs her shoulders. An expression of I don’t care, why would I?

  I shrug back, and begin to shrink into Maisie - the only face Esmeralda will recognise.

  It’s weird being Maisie right now. Because Maisie is only ever used for one purpose. For The Coalition. She goes to the office, and sometimes she goes on random side-quests with her colleagues, but she always looks the same. Always dresses non-controversially in whites and bcks. Always somewhat formal.

  And yet, now she stands in a pink dress that’s a little too big for her. I’m used to Maisie feeling like an ankle tag, but she feels floatier right now. For the first time ever, Maisie feels as real as Cassie does. She almost feels like Wendy’s Maisie.

  "What’s your name now?" Jamie asks, smiling to hide her anxiety.

  "Maisie," I say, my voice light, warm.

  The look she gives me - nodding and whispering the name to herself to commit it to memory - makes my chest ache. It’s an odd symmetry: I’m learning her pronouns, and she’s learning my names. Somewhere between the two of us, we’re building something delicate. Tentative.

  The trees of Dunbne are stark and bare, branches twisted like reaching fingers, their leaves long gone to the turning seasons. The ground is hard beneath our shoes, and frost lines the grassy edges of the trail. Pigeons warble overhead.

  Jamie walks beside me, her steps cautious, her posture hunched slightly forward. She’s tense, unsure of the terrain - not just the physical ground, but the world I’ve dragged her into. It’s clear she doesn’t know what to expect, but she’s here anyway.

  It smells like cold bark and wet moss, and as we walk, a kind of stillness settles into the woods. This pce remembers things.

  We’re not talking much, but I occasionally call out Esmeralda’s name between moments of silence, not loudly - just enough for a nearby listener to catch the cadence. I hope she remembers me as the one who saved her, not the one who left her alone.

  Jamie shivers slightly and gnces around, her face uneasy.

  "Do you have any family?" I ask, softening my tone. I know this walk is unnerving, and I want her to have something human to cling to.

  "My mum and my sister," she says, voice clipped. "But they’re down in London. I’m only up here for university."

  Sadness coats her words. I feel a tug in my chest, a pang of empathy, or maybe guilt. This might be the first time that she's included them and her gender woes in the same thought and I can see her start to spiral. Selfishly, I try to pull her out of it - this isn't the right time.

  "I don’t think you ever mentioned what you study."

  She shrugs. "Have I not? Computer Science."

  There’s a fsh of something like embarrassment on her face. She says it as if she’s revealing something shameful. As if her career path and her gender is a contradiction she hasn’t reconciled yet.

  "Women in STEM," I say, teasing gently, but there’s a warmth in it. The kind that hopes she knows I’m proud.

  She blushes, her gaze dropping to the ground. "Um, yeah, I guess. From what I’ve read online... it’s quite a stereotype, isn’t it?"

  "Trans girls in tech? Hell yeah, it is."

  She smiles, but doesn’t eborate further. Instead, she decides it’s my turn to hurt.

  "What about you?"

  "I don’t study."

  "No, I mean - do you have any family?"

  "Oh."

  My chest tightens at the question. A deep, hollow pressure, like someone’s pressed a fist against my lungs. Because the answer is no. Of course the answer is no. I don’t know where I came from. I just arrived on the streets of London one day, with no idea of what had come before. No memories of who raised me. No knowledge of who loved me. No sense of what I am.

  And I’ve taught myself not to care. I’ve carved that truth into something quiet - something manageable. Because not every mystery gets an answer. And if I let the unsolvable ones chew at me, I’ll never get anything done.

  "No," I say, the word sharper than I want it to be. "I don’t."

  The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty. It’s swollen. My throat aches. My eyes sting. Family is overrated, I tell myself. I’ve seen how Lexi’s family treats her. I saw how it poisoned Ishani. I don’t want that. I don’t need that.

  Do I?

  "I’m sorry," Jamie says, squeezing my hand, soft and sudden. She says it like she was the one who crossed a line. Like she’s hurt me by asking. "That must be shit."

  "I’m fine," I say, but my voice has that gssy edge to it. The one you only get when your face is clenched too tight to move and your eyes are too wet to blink. I force the tears back. I won’t cry about this. I’ve lived with it forever. Why does it feel harder now?

  "It’s okay not to be," she says, and her grip tightens until it actually hurts. I don’t shake her off.

  Before I can say anything else, a high-pitched voice yells through the trees.

  "Ah’m warnin’ ye, get oot o’ here!"

  I snap upright, scanning the woods. The emotional haze drops away in an instant. I search the shadows for movement. Jamie casts me a panicked look, frozen in pce.

  "You heard that chittering too, right?" she says.

  I shake my head. "No, I heard Scottish."

  She frowns. I smirk in response. Without the ILM, all she got was raw Trowkin - clicks and chittering and growls. But I got something closer to home. Somehow, her Trowkin speech has been influenced by the local dialect. I make a mental note to pass this on to Margaret, somehow.

  "Esmeralda!" I call out, raising my voice without sounding aggressive. "It’s me. We met st week."

  The wind moves through the trees, cold and thin. Silence follows, broken only by the rustling of the underbrush. Jamie’s fingers twitch against her side, but she keeps still, watching me for direction.

  A figure drops from the trees with a sharp thud - too fast, too smooth, definitely not human. I flinch a little, but I know her instantly.

  Esmeralda. Small. Fragile. Her skin a pale, sickly grey. A thin red ribbon tied around one of her spiked ears. Her ft-nosed face is hollowed out a bit more than st time - she looks hungry. Underfed. But still fierce.

  Each hand grips a dagger, and they glint dully in the dappled light, clearly carved from bone.

  "You!" she snarls, raising both weapons. "Takin’ ma family wisnae enough, aye? Had tae come back an’ finish the job, did ye?"

  It takes everything I have not to ugh. A furious little goblin-like girl, snarling like a banshee in the thickest Scots I’ve ever heard. But Jamie’s frozen, wide-eyed with real fear, and that sobers me quickly.

  Because as silly as it might seem to me, this situation could go very wrong. Those bdes are real. She might be faster than I am, but I can take a few stabs. I’m not sure Jamie can.

  "I’m not here to hurt you," I say, hands raised, palms open. Beside me, Jamie does the same - hesitant, but obedient. "I came at the request of your father, Gill."

  Esmeralda’s brow pulls tighter, recognition fshing behind her eyes. She looks me up and down. I can see the thoughts cshing behind her face. Does she remember I helped? Or does she think I stood by? Did Gill tell her to trust me - or to avoid me?

  "Where is he?" she says, raising the daggers again. "Ah ken you’re one o’ the bastards that took him. Take me tae him - now!"

  "I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. The people that took him have too much power and I can’t save him from them. I was only able to save you."

  "Yer full o’ shite. Ah ken ye’ve got him, an’ Ah ken ye can take me tae him. So dae it - or Ah’ll stick ye, and yer wee boyfriend or whatever he is."

  The daggers are trembling slightly in her hands, edges uneven. She’s desperate more than dangerous. I resist the urge to correct her on Jamie’s pronouns, if not only because that would mean letting Jamie know that it happened. She can understand me, but she can’t understand Esmeralda.

  "Maisie, what’s going on?" she whispers to me. "Are we going to need to fight it?"

  "No, it’s fine," I say, waving my hand dismissively as I turn back to the Trowkin. "Please don’t make this turn ugly. I really don’t want to fight you. I just came to give you these."

  I lift up the brown box, cheeping softly with the sound of nervous life. Her eyes dart toward it despite herself, her nose twitching, her expression cracking with a hunger that’s painful to witness.

  A low, involuntary growl rumbles from her throat, and for a moment she clutches her stomach, blinking hard. She looks thinner than before - drawn in around the cheeks, like the woods haven’t fed her properly in days.

  "Are ye tryin’ tae bribe me? Buy ma submission? Ah’ll no’ surrender till ma faither’s free."

  There’s a pause, where she clutches her stomach and blinks. "But... Ah will take them, if ye’re offerin’."

  I move forward slowly, the box extended in front of me. Jamie’s fingers wrap suddenly around my wrist, startling me for a half-second - but the panic in her grip only makes me feel more protective of her. Big sister instincts - that I had no idea existed - flicker to life. I squeeze her hand gently in return, hoping that’s enough reassurance.

  As I meet Esmeralda halfway, the daggers never lower. She snatches the box the second we’re close enough, springing backwards like an animal, her eyes never leaving me. I step back too, hands raised, keeping everything deliberate, everything careful.

  She rips the lid from the box, breath quivering with anticipation, and stares down at the yellow fluff inside. Her nostrils fre. Her lips part.

  Jamie grabs my arm again, harder this time.

  "She’s not going to eat them right now, is-"

  She doesn’t get the chance to finish her question, because Esmeralda’s face is already in the box, shaking back and forth with an animal-like roar, harmonised by the weakened cheeps of her live food. Jamie turns her back immediately, unable to stomach watching. I stand, mesmerised by it.

  Eventually, her head leaves the box. Her grey face is spttered with red and yellow and she grins with her pointed, sharp teeth - each one stained and glistening. It’s a grotesque sight, but not one that fazes me. Jamie, though? She’s white as a sheet, standing a full step behind me and looking like she’s going to be sick. I catch her eye and can’t help but smile. There’s something weirdly delightful about watching her horror in contrast to my calm. She’s new to all this. I forget how raw the world still is for her.

  "Now, that? That wis some good shite!"

  I nod, offering her a warm smile. There’s blood on her chin and gore flecked across her cheek, but she’s content. Fed. That’s all that matters.

  "There’s plenty more where that came from. I can bring you a box every week. On one condition."

  "Name yer price, faither-thievin’ bastard."

  Her knives are still up, but her voice has lost some of its edge. There’s a hint of curiosity beneath the bravado now. I step forward slightly, lowering my voice - not because I need to, but because it feels like a moment that warrants care.

  "That you don’t eat any humans. Take all the cattle you want, as long as you don’t get caught. Whatever else you can catch, fair game. But no humans. Got it?"

  She blinks once. Long and slow. I can see the calcutions going on behind those wide, expressive eyes. She’s considering it like it’s a real bargain - but we both know she has no other option. The memory tech is gone. She can’t cover her tracks like her family did. If she slips up now, The Coalition won’t be as forgiving the next time.

  "Aye, Ah can dae that. Ye’ve got yersel’ a deal."

  We don’t shake hands. Her knives don’t lower. But there’s a mutual pause, a charged stillness between us. Not quite trust, but a beginning.

  Then she speaks again, and her voice is suddenly small.

  "Ma da... he’s gonnae be okay, right?"

  My stomach tightens. My heart sinks.

  "No, I’m sorry. I don’t think he is. If there was anything I could do..."

  But I don’t finish. Because I see her colpse - not dramatically, not violently, just quietly. Her small frame folds onto the forest floor like a child curling into herself after too many nightmares. The knives ctter to the soil, forgotten.

  "Ah dinnae think Ah can dae this wi’oot him. There’s nothin’ else left, is there?"

  Jamie touches my arm, gently - instinctively. Her signal is clear: are you sure? Is this safe? But I ignore her. I move forward, step by slow step, and sit down beside Esmeralda. She flinches when I wrap my arm around her shoulders, but doesn’t pull away. Her skin is cold. She smells like moss and blood and grief.

  "I’m sorry," I whisper. "I really, truly, am."

  The forest chatters around us, full of creaking branches and unseen rustles. Jamie stands still, not looking away this time. Watching. Trying to make sense of it, even without words. And for a few minutes, none of us speak. Esmeralda breathes in short, sharp gasps. Her tiny cws scratch the ground beside her.

  Then, at st-

  "Ma faither said ye were no’ from this world either. Wis that true?"

  I nod. "Yes, that’s right."

  "How d’ye get through it?"

  I look up at Jamie, still hovering at a polite distance, uncertain but present. There’s a flicker in her face I can’t quite name - empathy, maybe, even if she can’t hear the question.

  "Friends," I say, soft and honest, my voice barely louder than the wind. "With friends."

  "They took every st one o’ ma friends."

  Her voice cracks, and I feel it in my chest. But something shifts as she says it. The word they has repced you. The bme has lifted - just slightly. Enough to feel like progress. I squeeze her shoulder gently.

  "I’ll be your friend," I say. "It’s going to be okay."

  And even if it’s a lie, even if the world isn’t kind to girls like us - girls out of pce in a pce that doesn’t want us - I want her to hear it. I want her to believe it. Because once, long ago, a beautiful trans woman said it to me. To pull me out of one of my darkest times. And it saved my life.

  "This is my friend Jamie. She is driving me home," I say, climbing into the passenger seat with a grin. "She is doubting her mental capacity after the things she has witnessed today."

  Jamie smirks, though her cheeks flush crimson, and she fixes her eyes firmly on the steering wheel as if it might suddenly sprout wings. I didn’t get much of a chance to gender her during our conversation with Esmeralda, so I’ve been making up for it ever since we left the woods. Her face hasn’t been white since the walk started. She’s adorable.

  "I can stop if I’m embarrassing you," I say, throwing her a bone as the car engine sputters to life. Outside, the countryside flits by - expansive fields dotted with grazing sheep, and the occasional cluster of trees swaying in the breeze. The traffic’s picked up, distant hums and groaning engines trickling into our peaceful little bubble.

  Jamie shakes her head, still staring at the dashboard. "No, definitely not. It’s... weird. But a good weird, I think."

  I fsh my widest smile, unable to contain it. "That’s amazing, Jamie." She winces. It’s not huge, just a tiny crack in her composure, but I see it. I raise an eyebrow. "Are you okay?"

  She sighs, leaning back against her seat, her hands white-knuckling the wheel. "I don’t know. It’s like... a few days ago, everything was fine. And now that I have a bel for things, everything feels... wrong."

  I nod, feeling that all-too-familiar pang of understanding. "Like your name?"

  "Like my name."

  I give her an encouraging tap on the arm. It’s a light touch, but it feels important, grounding. "I mean, Jamie is pretty gender-neutral."

  It’s a stupid thing to say. True, technically, but stupid. If you’ve only ever used it in a male way, then it’s going to feel male, regardless.

  Her shoulders tighten, and she shakes her head. "No, I don’t want to keep it."

  I blink, a little stunned. "So... you’re doing this then?"

  A weak smile stretches across her lips, her eyes still locked on the road. "Yeah, I suppose I am."

  I watch her for a moment, the early morning light streaming through the windows and illuminating her face. She looks so different - not physically, but in the way she holds herself. Nervous and jittery, but lighter somehow. Like she finally understands herself, even if she’s still terrified of what that means.

  "What changed?" I ask, my voice soft, not wanting to disrupt whatever fragile understanding she’s reached.

  Her grip on the wheel tightens. "I think today has shown me that gender is pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things."

  I ugh, a genuine, bright ugh that bounces around the interior of the car. She joins in, soft and awkward, but there’s something real in it. I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I reach out and grab her hand - dangerous as hell when driving, I’m well aware - don't try this at home - and squeeze it. Warmth surges through me, and for a split second, the whole world feels a little less broken.

  It makes sense. In the st twenty-four hours, she’s gone from being a toy in somebody’s sick sex game to learning that impossibilities are possible. There’s no surprise that such a huge shift caused her to realign her thought process on something that had likely been stuck in a stalemate for years.

  "That’s not true. You’re important, Jamie. I mean... shit."

  We both giggle, and I let go of her hand, though my fingers linger a bit too long. She clears her throat and focuses back on the road, but there’s a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

  "If your old name makes you feel uncomfortable, then you need a new one," I say, smirking. "I can’t just call you nothing!"

  Jamie’s brow furrows, a flicker of genuine curiosity lighting up her face. "How do you even do that?" she asks, her voice tinged with wonder. "Actually, I suppose I’m speaking to an expert here. Where do your names come from?"

  I pause, scrunching my face up as I try to find the right words. It’s weird; I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about it that hard before. The names just... happened. Like breathing.

  "It’s just vibes," I say finally, my voice casual. "Maisie came first, and I don’t really remember where it came from. It sounded innocent, while also having a little bit of css, which was perfect for the antics I got up to... Then, Cassie is kinda derivative of that. It’s dirtier, more pyful... more me." I pause, swallowing down the flutter in my throat. "Niamh... well, to be honest, Jam-" I catch myself. "To be honest, Niamh was meant to be disposable. I didn’t really give her any thought. If I hadn’t met you that night, I would’ve never been her again."

  There’s a moment of quiet. Jamie’s hands tense on the wheel, her knuckles whitening just a little, but she doesn’t speak. Her eyes flick to me for the briefest second, and I catch a glimpse of something mournful. I’m not sure if it’s for me, or for Niamh. But I don’t press her on it.

  We both sit in that silence for a while, with the hum of the engine and the whisper of wind brushing past us. The trees blur into streaks of green, fields rolling by in the periphery. The air between us feels heavy, but not uncomfortable. More like... potential. Like we’re sitting at the edge of something vast and new, and neither of us knows quite what to do with it.

  "What do you mean if you hadn’t met me that night?" she says, her voice steady but her eyes locked on the road.

  I take a breath, and it feels heavy. "I had a toxic habit," I say, pausing for a moment to brace myself. This is something literally nobody in my life knows about. Something that’s gnawed at me in every quiet moment and clouded the edges of every good one. "Where I’d put on an attractive new face and go to the clubs to pick up a one-night stand. I... can’t really have a proper retionship, so that was the best way of getting... release. I’d maybe done it a dozen times before you. You were the first one that made me want to stay."

  Her head tilts, a flicker of disbelief. "Why?" she says, pinly.

  I shrug, though the weight of it is heavier than I let on. "At first, I thought it was because you cried. Because you were a mystery that I knew I could solve, because I had a good guess at what the answer was. And maybe that was it at first... But what I said at your ft, the other night... I meant it. I knew it was impossible, but I wanted you. You were the least stressful person in my life and I wanted you."

  The morning sunlight spills through the car windows, casting everything in a warm, golden hue. We sit in silence, and the car hums gently beneath us, steady and comforting. The weight of the confession is still in my chest, but it feels different now - less like a suffocating pressure and more like something that’s slowly, painfully, beginning to lift.

  "Maisie..." she starts to say, but trails off, eyes still fixed on the road ahead.

  I raise my hands in surrender. "Don’t worry about it," I say, forcing a smile that feels more natural than I expect. "I’m over it now. I realise how stupid I was and I’m over it."

  Her hands tighten on the wheel. "Maisie, you’re not stupid."

  I shake my head, staring out the window as the fields whip by, the smell of cow shit faint but persistent in the air. "No, I am. Because none of it was real. Everything was built on lies. Just like with Lexi and everybody else. None of it’s been honest."

  "But you’re being honest now."

  The words nd heavily. I blink back the wetness in my eyes and nod, my voice barely a whisper. "Yeah... once I had no choice."

  "Well then, let’s draw a line under this. Forget the lies, let’s start anew. And if you still have feelings in a month, we can talk about it then."

  I turn to her, the wetness in my eyes spilling over, and for once, I don’t even care. The sun catches her hair, turning it to gold as she drives, eyes forward, her expression soft but resolute. I choke out a ugh that feels like a release. "When did you get so wise?"

  "As I’ve been saying - it’s been a hell of a day."

  We both burst into ughter, hers wild and unrestrained. It’s the kind of ugh that sounds like it’s been trapped inside her for too long - raw and unrestrained, bubbling up to the surface. I ugh along with her, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like a weight is slipping off my shoulders. Honesty is terrifying, but it’s also liberating.

  For the first time ever, I’m seriously considering if it’s time to tell Lexi. If maybe, everything would be okay. It’s clearer now, in this moment with Juno - more possible. Maybe I could tell Lexi without breaking everything. The fear is still there, sharp and jagged, but it’s joined by a glimmer of hope.

  But I shake off the thought for now. "So... names?" I say, forcing the words out with a grin. "Are you keeping the J?"

  She takes a moment to think. "It would make things easier, wouldn’t it?"

  "Maybe a little. So what we thinking, then? Jane?"

  She scoffs. "Absolutely not."

  "Janet? Julia? Jill?"

  "Any that don’t make me sound fifty?"

  I cross my arms and lean back, the motion casual and rexed. "I think they’re lovely names!"

  She gives me a side-eye. "They’re just not me."

  We both go quiet, the road stretching out ahead of us, golden and calm. The sunlight flickers through the trees, dappling her face with patches of light and shadow. I’m running through every name I can think of that starts with J. I smirk.

  "Juno?" I say, my voice soft.

  "Like the movie?" she asks, gncing over at me.

  "Sure," I shrug, though I was definitely thinking more about the Sabrina Carpenter song based on said movie.

  She doesn’t say anything at first, just strokes her chin as she overtakes a slow-moving car. Her hands are steady on the wheel, and I can see the gears turning in her head. "I like it. Maybe? I don’t know, I need to think about it some more."

  I shrug, mirroring her. "There’s no commitment. I know trans girls who’ve had five names. It’s about finding the one that’s right for you."

  "God, this is scary."

  "I know," I say, my hand finding hers, squeezing it warm and firm. "But I’m here to help. You and me against the world, Juno."

  And when she smiles back at me, it’s with a lightness I haven’t seen before. Hope, real and tangible, fills the space between us, soft and unbreakable. And I know, without a doubt, that everything is going to be okay.

  As soon as I enter The Duck at 2 p.m. on the dot, I race towards Eleanor Whitman and pull the startled nddy into the biggest hug that either of us has had in months. There’s a cosy, familiar warmth to her, like hugging a firepce on a cold winter’s night. The past week has felt like a marathon sprint through a minefield, and Eleanor is the finish line - the one who always waits for me, open arms and all.

  "Well, nice of you to actually show up for once!" she crows, though there’s a genuine fondness in her voice. She only works Friday to Sunday, and I missed both st night and st Sunday, which means it’s been a whole week since we st saw each other. I almost ugh at the absurdity of it; the st time we spoke, she was kicking Juno out of the bar at my request because I thought she might be a vampire.

  Jesus, when you put it like that... what a fucking week it’s been.

  I pull back from the hug, grinning up at her tired face, still beaming with that smile she saves just for regurs she actually likes.

  "I can’t give you an excuse not to pay me," I say, my grin turning pyful.

  She shakes her head, muttering under her breath as she shuffles over to the till, hands moving with the grace of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

  "Are you okay, hun? It has been a while, and I got the impression from Lexi yesterday that... things are a little off."

  The smile falters for just a second. "I’ve got a lot going on right now," I admit, the words escaping before I have the chance to fully censor them. "And I hurt Lexi’s feelings by not letting her in on things... But it’s all going to be okay."

  I say it like I mean it, but I don’t - not really. I want to. But I can’t help but feel like I’m lying through my teeth. Because I don’t know how I’m going to fix things with Lexi. This newfound surge of honesty I’ve found with Juno is slowly eroding the walls I’ve kept up for so long. The voice inside my head, the one that’s been screaming at me for years to keep Lexi in the dark, is getting drowned out.

  But I can’t quite drown it completely. I can’t ignore the possibility that it could all still fall apart. That Lexi will see me for what I am - a liar, a maniputor - and I’ll lose her forever. That I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone, and I won’t be able to bring her back.

  And when she walks in, ten minutes te, giving me only a flicker of eye contact and the barest of smiles, it feels like a gut punch. Lexi looks stitched together in that way only people who know her well can recognise. Tired, but hiding it well. Holding on by fraying threads.

  I did this to her.

  The next three hours are spent going through the motions: serving drinks, cleaning tables, making small talk. It’s dead in The Duck, even for a Saturday, and that makes it so much harder. I can’t throw myself into work; there’s nowhere to hide. Every passing minute is spent hyping myself up, trying to build the courage to pull her aside and finally tell her. To step out of the shadows and let her see me fully.

  But I don’t. I can’t find the right moment. I can’t find the right words. And I hate myself for it.

  We talk about other things, just surface-level chatter. TV shows, internet drama-nothing that matters. But there is one exception.

  "She finally cracked," I say, letting a sly smile slip onto my face.

  It takes her a second to process it, but when she does, her entire expression lights up. "Impressive work! That was pretty quick."

  I shrug, forcing myself to sound casual. "She’d been repressing for a while, I think."

  "That makes sense," Lexi says, nodding, her voice growing softer. "Well, congratutions. When can I meet her?"

  At one point, the idea of Juno and Lexi meeting seemed like a death wish. Now? Now it feels pusible. Like the walls I’ve built are finally crumbling, and I’m not as scared as I should be. In fact, I’m kind of excited.

  "I don’t know," I say, trying to sound nonchant. "But definitely soon. I’ll have to tell Eleanor to take her off the barred list."

  Lexi snorts at that, her body leaning instinctively against my shoulder. For just a moment, it feels like things are normal again. Like we haven’t been tiptoeing around this giant crack in our retionship. I can feel her warmth, the weight of her head just barely pressing against me, and I want to hold on to it. I want to freeze this moment and never let it go.

  But the distance creeps back in. I feel it before she even pulls away. Her muscles tense, her head lifts, and just like that, she’s a foot away again. My shoulder is cold.

  It hurts so badly that if things had gone differently, I might have finally told her then and there. But at that exact moment, things got more complicated. Because I hear a cough behind me, sharp and deliberate. Followed by a silky, familiar voice that slices through the low hum of the bar. Completely out of pce.

  "Cassandra Vale? I’d like to have a word, if you may."

  My blood runs cold. The air is sucked from the room, and Lexi evaporates from my view. All I can see is the woman standing there, hands csped neatly in front of her, dressed in the professional severity of a bck suit. Margaret Christie. Dr M.

  Her eyes are daggers, sharp and cold. I swallow hard, my throat like sandpaper, and force myself to meet her gaze.

  Lexi’s still beside me, her expression confused, brows knitted together as she gnces between me and Margaret. She has no idea who this woman is - no idea why I’ve gone stiff as a corpse, or why the air feels like it’s turned to concrete.

  Margaret smiles, but it’s empty. "I do hope I’m not interrupting."

  I lead her outside, onto the street - thinking that a public view might be best, just in case she tries to kill me. People are shouting somewhere in the distance, and I can hear the faint drum of music-somewhere out of sight, like the city’s heartbeat echoing through the veins of its streets. The whole world feels alive, even if it’s just ghosts dancing beyond our reach.

  A million thoughts swarm through my head, each louder than the st. She called me Cassandra. Not Joanna - Cassandra. Which means she’s seen through part of the disguise, enough to track me here, enough to know that I’m still alive. And if she knows that, she probably knows much more. A sick, twisting sensation rolls through my stomach. Where did I slip up? How did she find me? What else does she know?

  I haven’t heard from Ishani all day, and I was really expecting to. Last night, I hit her while wearing Cassie’s face and Holly’s clothes. I don’t know if she picked up on that st part, and if she did, I don’t know what expnation her mind might have conjured. Maybe she assumed Cassie had a fetish for dressing like her ex, or that Cassie and Holly were friends in secret. She could’ve had a thousand different theories, but she never would’ve guessed the truth. But if she shared her suspicions with Margaret? Then all of those jigsaw pieces would’ve fallen neatly into pce. A sharp chill creeps up my spine, and I resist the urge to shiver. She knows. She must know.

  We reach the pavement beneath the yellow glow of the streetlights, our faces painted amber by the flicker of electricity. Margaret finally speaks, her voice like ice, shattering the tense silence.

  "I believe you assaulted one of my associates st night," she says. Her tone is clipped, calcuted, completely dissimir to how she speaks to Maisie or Holly. She’s not just cold - she’s clinical. All of that motherly warmth, stripped away and repced by something sleek and vicious.

  "I believe your associate assaulted me on Wednesday evening," I snap back, narrowing my eyes.

  Her expression flickers, a crack in her perfect composure. Ishani hasn’t told her everything. That’s good news.

  "Is that so?" she asks, her eyes pinning me down like a butterfly to a corkboard.

  "In this very location," I say, folding my arms defensively. "With a brick."

  She exhales sharply through her nose, a sound somewhere between disbelief and dismissal. "Regardless," she continues, smoothing her hands along the front of her coat, "I am here to give you a singur warning, Cassandra. If you touch her, or any of my people, again - there will be consequences. I have contacts at all the newspapers. I don’t think you need me to tell you what they’ll do to somebody like you."

  I stiffen, the words smming into my chest like a physical blow. She’s threatening me. Margaret Christie is threatening me. But I’m not sure if she knows who I am. Not entirely. It feels like we’re both skating on the edge of a knife, both unwilling to fall first. I search her eyes for anything - some flicker of recognition, some crack in her mask. There’s nothing.

  I try to think back. Those first few months of freedom, when I didn’t know my own face, my own body. When I wasn’t even Maisie yet. Margaret was the only one who really spoke to me back then. The only one who called me by a name instead of a cssification. I remember how she’d bring me books to read, how she’d listen to me when I spoke - how she’d made me believe I was worth more than just the sum of my parts.

  "Why are you warning me?" I say, tilting my head slightly. "Because I don’t think it’s mercy, is it? You don’t want to go to the newspapers. Because I think you’re hiding something, too."

  Her eyebrow arches, and she regards me with a flicker of what almost looks like respect-a shift from the mild disdain she wore when we first stepped outside. As if I’m no longer just a thorn in her side, but a potential threat. Not my smartest move, maybe, but I’m willing to double down on it if it gets me answers.

  "Perhaps," she says, her voice sliding into something sharper, her lips curled into a snarl. "But do not think, for one moment, that this makes it an empty threat. I will ruin your life, Cassandra, if you make me."

  I ugh, shaking my head. It’s forced bravado, but I make it look good. "I don’t fear you, Margaret Christie."

  That wasn’t a mistake! I know that I have a bad habit of saying names that I shouldn’t, but I say her name deliberately, watching for the flicker of surprise that might tell me she doesn’t know who I really am. But her expression doesn’t shift the way I’d hoped. Instead, she just shakes her head and smiles. Not surprised - amused.

  "Well," she says, her tone almost admiring. "I have to say - that is impressive. Most of the women in my group don’t even know my full name. Where did you learn that?"

  I chuckle, keeping my shoulders loose and my stance casual. "I’ll keep you guessing."

  "Very well." She nods, almost as if we’ve made some unspoken agreement. Her eyes glitter with something sharper. "Seems to be a trend of people knowing more than they should today. Now, I don’t know why Holly Barton felt the need to protect you by changing your name. But I’m assuming, by your willingness to throw out it out, that she is not your source. It would be pretty reckless of you to throw her under the bus like that."

  I shrug, not offering her anything more than a smirk. She’s nded exactly where I wanted her - tangling Holly up in a web of her own assumptions.

  "I know what you’re pnning," I say, unable to stop myself. My voice is colder than I intend. "I know about the blood, and I’m going to stop you."

  Her reaction isn’t shock or even defensiveness. It’s ughter. Full, throaty ughter that echoes off the walls of the empty street, bouncing back at me like a taunt. She throws her head back - a theatrical gesture - but there’s no joy in it. Just mockery.

  "You know a lot, Cassandra," she says, wiping her eyes. "But at the same time - you know very little. And I’m afraid it’s already too te for you to stop me from doing anything."

  I take a step back towards the door of The Duck, feeling the cool metal of the handle press against my back. "We’ll see," I say, voice firm.

  Her smile sharpens, and she nods slowly. "We’ll see, indeed." Her eyes flicker with something almost soft before her expression hardens again. "Well, you were certainly a surprise. It was interesting to meet you, I can see why Holly still likes you, but I better get going."

  Before I can even question those words, she turns, taking two steps before pausing. She looks back at me, her face touched with something almost like sadness-almost.

  "It’ll be front-page news on Monday," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I’m sorry. But it’s the only way."

  And with that, she’s gone-leaving me alone on the empty street, with dread crawling up my spine and her words echoing in my skull. What is happening on Monday? How did she find me? What does she mean Holly likes me?

  LilAgarwal