Maxtn

  Maxtn’s room in House Venus used to be the opulent one—back when it was still his. The same room Jace and Jace’s sister now argued in, threw pillows and punches, made up just to start all over again in the same hour. Lover’s quarrels. Shouting and kissing. All in his old bed.

  Jace had moved in completely. Maxtn was pushed to the sidelines, just another ghost drifting through House Venus.

  But Jace’s father still had use for a tool that wasn’t broken.

  They reassigned him as an advisor. Gave him a unit on one of the top floors, slapped a pension on it, scholarship, stipend, all that jazz. His digs were nice too. He had a real mattress now. The kind of carpet that made no sound when you walked on it. And for once, he wasn’t clawing his scalp raw from stress.

  He was at his desk. The lamp flicked on. The body and guts of a slug-based pistol lay in front of him. Pistol-sized, old-school. Real metal, real weight. A screwdriver, a vial of gun oil, his glasses low on his nose. He pressed them up with two fingers, massaging the tender red spot along the bridge.

  That’s when he heard the knock.

  His eyes shot wide. No one knocked here.

  He swept the gun parts into an open drawer with quick, practiced hands. Flicked off the lamp.

  Then—eyes narrowed, shoulders tight—he moved through the shadows of his own apartment, pressing his body flat against the door. Sweat ran a single line down his temple as he leaned forward and peered through the eyehole.

  Then—

  “I know you’re in there, Maxtn.”

  The voice came funneling through, mature and dangerous. Rich. Calm like a sword still sheathed.

  Maxtn rolled his eyes.

  “What are you doing here, Esava?” he spat, yanking the door open.

  She smiled at him. Not with her mouth—just her eyes. Dark, brown, full of quiet amusement as she stepped in without being asked. He glanced left, right, then shut the door behind her.

  “How did you even get here without security stopping you?” Maxtn asked.

  Esava shrugged, laughing lightly. “A witch’s secret.”

  He scoffed. “That’s what you and your sisterhood say to everything.” He rubbed his temple, pacing once before turning to face her fully. “But that doesn’t change the question. Why are you here.”

  “Maybe I wanted to pay a visit to an old friend,” she said lightly.

  Maxtn just stared at her.

  Esava sighed, the edge of a smile still tugging at her mouth. “You were never one for jokes.”

  “My time has always been pressed and short,” Maxtn replied. “You, of all people, should know that.”

  She didn’t sit. Still standing, she dropped her voice. “Gerald is dead.”

  Maxtn’s face changed. His whole palm went to his cheek.

  “C-Christ… Gerald?” He snapped his head toward her. “I just had class with him and now he’s…”

  “He died maybe a day or two ago. Or that’s just when they found his body.”

  “…Body?” Maxtn repeated.

  Esava nodded. “Murder.”

  His eyes widened. His breath caught.

  She pointed to her neck. “Evisceration weapon. The bastard didn’t even finish the cut. Left him there—half-done—for his brother to find.”

  “…Bracken,” Maxtn whispered.

  Then silence. His eyes drifted sideways, toward the edge of the desk. Out through the window. Out to the night. A sky full of stars, cold and bright and distant. Mocking.

  “The little brother…” Esava’s voice barely stirred the air. “Now he’ll…”

  “Lead,” Maxtn muttered, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, eyes shut so hard it looked like pain. “The Plutonians have buried themselves even deeper in that Imperial Dogma. Royal houses, ceremonial bloodlines—what the fuck is this? The eighteenth century?”

  Esava sighed. “He’s just a young man. Hard to believe they’d make him president overnight.”

  Maxtn sneered. “That boy doesn’t look a day over eighteen.” He scoffed, bitter. “Gerald was the real thing. Man whipped his year, the year before that, and the one before that into shape. Got House Pluto running like a proper military—small, sure, but ferocious.”

  “…And Bracken?” Esava asked.

  Maxtn turned to her, voice tight. “Gerald was forged steel. Bracken? He was the shadow that followed him around. I felt it even when he was alive. Kid liked living in that shadow. It made him feel important.”

  Esava’s eyes widened.

  Maxtn breathed deep, voice warping at the edge. “Look, I know I’m being cruel, but what the hell are they thinking?” He pulled off his glasses mid-sentence. “A boy so green he’s practically pissing grass. And this is who they elect?”

  Esava said nothing. Her silence wasn’t passive. It had a weight.

  “There were three others I would've picked,” Maxtn went on. “And none of them had the right bloodline. Me, Gerald, the others—we spent years. Real, exhausting years, trying to make this place less of a fucking threat. Something…”

  Esava watched him struggle with the next word. He finally pushed it out, bitter as bile.

  “Kinder.”

  He gritted his teeth. The word sat heavy between them.

  Then came a shift in her. A hollowness that hadn’t been there before. Her gaze drifted. Her arms folded tight around herself like she was cold.

  “You witches couldn’t be bothered,” Maxtn went on, voice rising. “Not when the Neptunians were cracking down on anyone with DNA even slightly modified. Not when the Martians threw tantrums every time the Senate said no. Not when Mercury was bleeding their colonies dry and no one lifted a fucking finger.”

  He threw his hand through the air, slicing the space between them.

  “Two to three solid years—good years. I lose the presidency, my influence, my title, all of it. For what? Some little shit who doesn’t even get it.”

  “You have to make him get it,” Esava said.

  Maxtn froze. Eyes wide. That shut him up fast. And now—now he knew. She hadn’t come here to mourn Gerald. She came ready. She came loaded with the words she’d kept to herself for too long.

  “Jace, heir to all Venuisan systems, is a fool,” she said, arms still locked around her torso like a self-made cage. “Say what you will about us witches keeping to our lane—but we like our galaxy tidy. Neat. In order.”

  Her voice cracked, then turned sharp.

  “And that Henryk. That Zephyr.” She spat the name like it tasted foul. “From Stella to Bracken to Ivan to Nickolas of Uranus… none of them. Not a one knew how to handle it.”

  Her jaw clenched.

  Maxtn’s voice came slow, heavy. “What do you mean?”

  Esava sneered, the edge of her voice slicing through the stagnant air. “The fact that they all deliberated, argued, nearly came to blows… their hatred for each other and their petty grievances were so loud, so consuming, they ignored the murdered body of their peer.”

  Maxtn exhaled hard, as if he could purge the truth from his lungs. He wanted to tell her that the academy’s missions were brutal, that they felt more like deployment than schooling. That after a few years, even death starts to feel bureaucratic. But this wasn’t some nameless cadet. This wasn’t a statistic. It was Gerald—head of House Pluto, soldier to the end. And this… this was the respect he got?

  She must’ve caught the shift in his face, saw the way his mouth twitched like it couldn’t decide whether to cry or rage. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him. But she did anyway. Her hand drifted to her temple, dragging across it like she was scraping out exhaustion with her fingers.

  “Not all of them were heartless,” she said, voice dulled. “Some were loud, yeah. Made things worse. But I’d take that kind of raw, dumb shock over silence. Apathy to death? That’s when you know something’s rotted.”

  “Why so?” Maxtn muttered. Not out of care. Just reflex. Like a tick.

  “It says a lot about a person,” Esava said. “If they can look at what was left of Gerald and not flinch… not fear that it could be them next. That kind of coldness? That’s not normal.”

  Maxtn drew in another breath, slow and bracing. “So it was murder, then.” He spoke the word like a trigger. “Who do you think did it?”

  Esava’s eyes widened. That alone gave him more than a name would have. He leaned in, voice turning sharp. “Don’t you start playing coy with me, Esava. I know you witches don’t travel light. You’ve got something.”

  “I don’t,” she said quickly.

  His eyes narrowed. Hers flashed, bright and accusing. “You really expect me to believe that?” he asked.

  “You should,” Esava snapped. Her pupils shrunk with the force of her voice. “None of the witches felt anything. Not a trace. We’ve got no stake in House Pluto.”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” Maxtn growled. “You’ve got your fingers in everyone’s business except theirs. How convenient.”

  She shot him a look sharp enough to gut a Warcasket, and for a moment Maxtn knew he’d pushed her too far. He winced, more tired than sorry.

  “There’s bad blood in that academy,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Old grudges, factional poison. But Gerald? He was solid. A decent man. I don’t know what sick bastard hated him enough to do this.”

  “It was from behind,” Esava said. “No defense wounds. He never even turned around.”

  Maxtn blinked, his gaze narrowing with dawning horror. “Someone he knew,” he said, voice low. “Someone he trusted.”

  “Exactly. He was at his desk. Room was clean. No signs of a fight. Just… silence,” Esava said, her voice quieter now, like the facts themselves were something sacred.

  Maxtn ran a hand over his face. “You said the weapon was an Evisceration Blade?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  Esava nodded grimly.

  “How the hell did no one hear that?” he barked. “They're chainsaw swords, Esava. You so much as tap the trigger and it screams like a banshee. The whole wing should’ve heard it. Hell, the next building over!”

  Esava shook her head, slow and unsure. “Not a peep.”

  He stared at her. “And you believe that?”

  “You think House Pluto would cover up their own leader’s death?” she asked.

  “I think Gerald had enemies. And his own were close enough to get that blade in his back,” Maxtn said darkly.

  “They were loyal to him,” Esava said, almost immediately. Her voice turned softer, but firmer. “To a fault. You felt it too. That old Pluto steel. The Martians have it too, maybe they learned it from them. That deep, tribal bond.”

  Maxtn opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. Memories did. He saw the cracked halls of House Pluto—no gold inlaid columns, no satin drapes or jeweled thrones like Venus. Just steel, gunmetal, and grit. But when you stepped through their gates, you felt something more enduring than wealth. Brotherhood. Unshakable.

  They didn’t kill him. That much he knew.

  But someone did.

  “What of the other lineup?” Maxtn asked, voice low, more out of habit than curiosity.

  Esava rolled her eyes with the weariness of someone who’d already argued this point three times today. “The usual suspects have no reason to want Gerald dead.”

  “Zephyr never liked him,” Maxtn said, leaning back in his chair. “Stella and Gerald got along fine, but Logan? That prick couldn’t hold his goddamn tongue if you stapled it to his gums.”

  “I don’t think it was Logan,” Esava said flatly.

  Maxtn raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “He’s stupid,” Esava admitted, “but not suicidal. Killing a rival president? Even he’s not that dumb. Being a prince only gets him so far around here. Sirine’s got her hand in the ring, and his older brother's inheriting Neptune and all its territories.”

  Maxtn nodded slowly, connecting the dots. “He’s the second son. He wouldn’t risk everything unless it was a sure thing. And Sirine… if he wins the election, he gets her and the academy. All wrapped in a neat Neptunian bow.”

  “A Neptunian academy,” Esava muttered, curling her lip like the words tasted foul. “What a shit show that’d be.”

  Maxtn sucked in a breath, rubbing the side of his temple. “I keep hearing a name pop up when Jace gets going. Henry? Henryk?”

  “Henryk,” Esava confirmed with a sharp nod.

  Maxtn snapped his fingers. “That’s him. Jace said Henryk tried to assault his sister. Claims he beat down three Venus bastards and then stomped Jace’s face in for good measure. Supposedly he carries a chain weapon, like one of those old Martian executioners.”

  “Wasn’t Henryk,” Esava interrupted, voice like steel.

  Maxtn didn’t stop. “He’s a Martian. An Executor. Born offworld, bred for war. To them, he’s what the next generation of warrior looks like: silent, brutal, flawless. And let’s not pretend Pluto and Mars haven’t been itching to slit each other’s throats since the last shaming.”

  Esava tilted her head, something passing behind her eyes. “You’re not wrong. But you’re not up to date either. Things have changed. House Pluto and House Mars aren’t exactly friends, but… Henryk was building something. A bridge. He made them talk.”

  Maxtn sneered. “Henryk. That mutant bastard. Every day it’s something else with him. Jace says he’s a rapist. Says he’s a killer. Says he’s a ticking bomb and no one’s smart enough to hear the fuse.”

  Esava smirked, dry and bitter. “Ah. So Jace still hasn’t let it go.”

  Maxtn nodded again, slower this time. Esava rolled her eyes, but then—she froze. Eyes widening. Her gaze snapped left, then right, like she’d just stepped into a trap and heard it click shut.

  “I’ve been made,” she said.

  Maxtn blinked. “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been made,” she repeated, her voice quieter now, urgent. Her head kept swiveling. “There’s someone else here. Someone strong. Another witch—no, more than that. A mage. Powerful.”

  Maxtn lurched from his chair, heart hammering. He swept his eyes over the room, made sure the tools and the notebook were back in the drawer. “You’ve gotta go. Now. If Jace finds out you were here—no permission, no formals—he’ll take it out on me. Personally.”

  Before he could say more, Esava’s hand struck his chest, flat and hard. It wasn’t a shove—it was a warning. A pause. Maxtn looked down at her hand, then back at her face. Their eyes locked.

  Outside his door, footsteps echoed. Fast, then fading. Someone heading back to their room. Or maybe… maybe it was the one Esava felt. The other one. The one coming for her.

  “Henryk is not the one I’m worried about…” Esava’s voice was a thread of silk fraying at the edge. “The Sisterhood and I once believed he was. But now—now I see we were wrong.”

  Maxtn frowned. “How can you be so sure?”

  Esava gave him a crooked smirk. It wasn’t playful. It was the kind of expression you gave when you’d bled long enough to know pain by name.

  “Because when Gerald broke down sobbing, Henryk was the only one who stayed. Everyone else filed out, pretending they didn’t hear it. But not him. He knelt beside Bracken and whispered to him like he was trying to keep the world from ending. How many so-called monsters do you know who would’ve done that? Murderers? Rapists? How many of them reach out to the broken?”

  Maxtn inhaled deeply, chest rising with a slow dread. Esava didn’t blink as she watched him.

  “Henryk J. Brown didn’t rape Hannah, the Venusian princess. He’s a goddamn hero. He saved hundreds on Oceana. A Knight in training. And if we had half a brain among the leadership, he’d be on a pedestal right now. He reminds me of you. Of Gerald. Of what this Academy might’ve been before we chained it to the rotting corpse of an imperial birthright system.”

  Maxtn's voice cracked like glass under pressure. “Then why are you here? What the hell did you come here for?”

  Esava’s reply was a whisper sharp as a blade unsheathing. “A warning.”

  She stepped closer. Her eyes had turned hard again. “The Witches of Jupiter—my kind—have never held sway over Jace. Not once. Not even a moment. And I can say that with all the weight of the presidency behind it.”

  Maxtn’s world tilted. His eyes went wide. “So Jace… he’s…”

  She nodded slowly.

  Maxtn buried his face in his hands. He felt the cold sweat on his palms, the heat in his cheeks. The room closed in around him.

  Then came the knock.

  Not a polite rap. Not hesitant. It was deliberate. Hollow. Like fists against a coffin lid.

  “Esava…” he breathed.

  But she was already smiling.

  “You know I have my ways,” she said sweetly, and before he could stop her, Esava dropped to her knees and began crawling beneath his bed like some mischievous spirit out of a ghost tale. She winked as she vanished under the frame.

  Maxtn stood frozen in the middle of the room, horror carved into every muscle of his face. That was her plan? To hide under his damn bed?

  The knock came again—louder this time. No more patience.

  If he didn’t answer soon, it would be worse. Far worse.

  He swallowed hard, ran a hand over his face, and stepped to the door. Unlocked it. Opened it.

  He expected authority. Maybe campus security. Some sour-faced administrator, clipboard in hand.

  Instead, it was Eliza and Lancel.

  They stood framed by the hallway light, uncanny and regal in the way only true Venusians could manage. Their purple eyes glowed faintly in the dim. Maxtn felt, absurdly, like a dirty MidWorld kid being summoned to court.

  Eliza had that bone-white porcelain skin and a cascade of dark hair that fell in perfect waves down her back. She wore a long, flowing dress the color of bruised lavender and charcoal smoke, a matte blend of royalty and mourning. Her eyes said she’d rather be anywhere else. Her mouth was fixed in tired disdain.

  Lancel was the mirror opposite. He beamed like a knight who had just stepped off the battlefield, expecting praise. His hands rested proudly on his hips, where two swords of uneven length hung from a black, cracked-leather belt. His armor gleamed like it had been polished with holy oil.

  The suit looked ancient, but it wasn’t. A Martian hybrid—power armor modeled after medieval chivalry. Old Earth pageantry twisted through Martian pragmatism.

  His boots clinked with every motion. His greaves bore violet trim. A tabard stretched across his chest, depicting a purple rose being run through by a yellow steel blade. His helmet, modeled after the old bascinet style, had its visor flipped up, revealing white-blond hair tousled from motion and the violet fire in his eyes.

  If Eliza was courtly poison, Lancel was ceremonial chaos.

  Maxtn realized, then, that something worse than inspection had arrived at his door.

  “Can I…”

  Eliza swept into the room like a stormcloud made flesh. Her shoulder brushed against Marcus as she passed, her eyes ignoring him entirely. Lancel shot the two of them a glance, confused, lips parted as if to say something before Eliza interrupted him with nothing but motion.

  “…help you,” Marcus finished, more out of reflex than intent.

  He looked at Lancel, brow tight.

  “Don’t look at me, buddy,” Lancel said, raising his palms. “She was just helping me with my magical resistance drills one minute, then the next she tells me to grab my sword and follow her like we’re marching into a siege.”

  Sword and follow.

  The phrase turned like gears inside Marcus’s head, something too familiar to feel casual. That was the danger of showing up unannounced—sometimes the war came looking back.

  “You good?” Lancel asked, nodding toward the still half-open door. “I mean… this is your room, and the Witch is…”

  Marcus shrugged, trying to will away the sweat itching at the base of his spine. He wouldn’t give anything away. Not now. Only idiots confessed before they were even accused. He’d let Esava play her hand first.

  Eliza, meanwhile, had looped back to stand near Lancel. She glanced at Maxtn’s shoes beneath the bed and then turned to him like nothing was out of place.

  “Sorry for disturbing you,” she said flatly.

  Maxtn bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin. He failed. He ran his fingers through his curls and gave her the kind of look that lived somewhere between amusement and accusation.

  “No big deal,” he said. “But maybe give me a heads-up next time before you break into my room like that. And seriously—why were you checking under my bed?”

  He laughed, the sound sharp and unguarded.

  Lancel exploded beside him, wheezing out a full-bodied laugh that echoed off the walls.

  Maxtn gave a lazy wave as he shut the door behind them. Lancel and Eliza drifted back into the corridor, side by side.

  “So what was that about?” Lancel asked, his voice dipped in curiosity. “Why’d we come to bother the old Prez anyway?”

  Eliza kept her gaze forward, eyes sharp, jaw set.

  “For a moment…” she said slowly, “I felt something. Familiar. Someone, maybe. And not just anyone—someone with immense magical potential.”

  She turned her head slightly toward Lancel.

  “In House Venus, I’m the only Imperially Mandated Witch. The only one in our ranks with that designation. But the energy I just felt… I’ve only encountered it once before. And very recently.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Her eyes flicked back toward Maxtn’s closed door. The polished wood suddenly felt like a wall between two timelines—before and after.

  “Magic isn’t always concrete,” she muttered, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Maybe I’m wrong… maybe…”

  But she didn’t believe that. Not really.

  “You know,” Lancel drawled, stretching the words out like a cat basking in sunlight, “next time, if you wanna storm into a room and poke around under a bed, you can do it in my room. Who knows—maybe we can mess around on the bed too.”

  His smirk was pure theater.

  Eliza sneered. Not subtly. She breezed past him without slowing down, her eyes rolling hard enough to make the gesture audible.

  “Hey, where you going?” he called after her, one hand cupped around his mouth like a makeshift megaphone, the other still extended in mock heartbreak.

  Himari

  Himari sat at the kitchen table, elbow propped, her hand supporting her chin. A smile played across her face—easy, warm, but a touch too practiced.

  “Easy…” she said softly, voice like sugar melted in tea.

  Bri glanced up at her and gave a grin in return. She took a deep gulp from her soda, the plastic crackling under the pressure of her fingers, and went right back to shoveling lo mein into her mouth like it was a sacred ritual.

  “The last time I ate was…”

  “Days ago, I know. Trust me, I know.” Himari said it quickly, the smile still locked on her face like it had been nailed there.

  Then came the door.

  The handle jostled. Not violent, not slow. The deliberate sound of a key sliding in, then twisting. Only one person used a key like that.

  Belle-Anne.

  She stepped in, first catching Himari’s face—and then, slowly, her gaze drifted down to the back of Bri’s head. Still. Focused. Too normal.

  Belle stood there in the threshold. She didn’t say a word. Bri turned to look over her shoulder, caught a noodle stuck to the corner of her mouth, and wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her eyes met Belle’s.

  And Belle froze.

  It was like seeing a ghost move inside a body you’d already buried.

  Bri had been locked away in her room for weeks. Screaming until her throat was raw, yanking clumps of her hair out, clawing at her own skin. She’d stopped eating. Stopped drinking. Whispered to herself about deer with human faces, about Executors and sons whose names were tied to death tolls in the millions. It had gotten so bad the Witches whispered about euthanasia behind closed doors.

  And now—there she was. Sitting cross-legged, eating cheap Chinese takeout like none of it ever happened.

  “Himari,” Belle-Anne said, her voice flat, her spine taut like a drawn bowstring. “Can I speak to you. In private.”

  Himari’s eyes narrowed just slightly, and that alone was enough to make Belle blink. There was steel there. A warning.

  But Himari stood anyway, sighed as if it were a ritual she’d grown tired of. Belle let her duffel bag slip off her shoulder with a dull thud.

  “Hi, Belle…” Bri spoke, just before the other two stepped into the hallway. “Seriously. I’m fine. Really. I… I honestly don’t know what happened.”

  Belle didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She just stared at her friend.

  Bri’s hair had always been a rich, dusty brown, but the way the light hit it now—it caught gold, the way old coins did when dug out from the dirt. She wore nothing but a plain white T-shirt and loose basketball shorts, and yet there was something delicate, almost wrong, about how normal she looked.

  Like something was mimicking her skin from the inside.

  Belle shut the door behind her and Himari. No softness to it. No politeness. Just finality.

  “I don’t know why you’re being like this,” Himari said flatly.

  “Being like what?” Belle snapped before she could stop herself. “All I am—” She gritted her teeth, swallowed the yell threatening to boil up. “Yesterday, we had to pin her down. We had to force food into her mouth. And now she’s sitting cross-legged like a goddamn cheerleader and ordering beef lo mein?”

  “A change of heart,” Himari said with a smile that felt too slow, like it was being pulled from her with tongs. She spread her arms in mock welcome.

  Belle’s eyebrows drew tight. “A change of heart?” she echoed, deadpan. “Are you fucking kidding me? Himari, there is something seriously wrong with her. And you know it.”

  Himari shook her head gently, once. “She’s fine.”

  “She’s so not fine,” Belle shot back. “She’s been catatonic. Unresponsive. Hurting herself. Sleep-deprived. Delirious. And you’re telling me she just decided to come back to life today like none of that mattered?”

  A silence fell between them. Thick. Ugly. Not dramatic, just heavy—like wet laundry in a storm.

  Then Himari said, in a voice that scraped with quiet disdain, “What is it that you want, Belle-Anne?”

  Belle’s breath hitched. Her jaw clenched. “The witches we were supposed to do your exorcism with? They’re either dead or they’re barely breathing in some trauma ward. Thanks to Henryk. That whole mission—yeah, that went to shit.”

  She rubbed her fingers along the bridge of her nose, trying to press the headache out of her skull.

  Himari sighed, the sound soft, intimate, strange.

  “Maybe we scared him,” she said. “Maybe whatever was controlling her got spooked. Maybe it let go.”

  Her voice lost confidence the longer she spoke.

  “Sometimes, there are windows,” she went on. “Moments where the cracks in whatever's got hold of someone… open just wide enough to let them breathe again. Bri is powerful, she could’ve…without realizing…she could’ve beat it.”

  "You can't rationalize what Bri was going through," Belle snapped, her voice tight and throat raw. She shook her head, like she was trying to dislodge a nightmare clinging to her thoughts. "The fact that an exorcism—"

  "Exorcism?" Himari cut in, voice cold and biting. "Do you even hear yourself?"

  She stepped forward, the floor creaking under her boots. Her stare was blistering, sharp enough to draw blood.

  "The Witches of Jupiter are scientists, Belle. Not mystics. Magic—" her voice twisted around the word, dripping with contempt, "—is just evolution taking a strange turn when humanity wandered into the stars like drunk gods. You want to call it magic because that’s easier than facing what we are."

  Belle’s jaw clenched hard enough to pop. Her tongue scraped against the back of her teeth as Himari pressed forward.

  "Demons, exorcisms, old-world superstitions. Hogwash. All of it buried by the end of the century. You really believe that hundreds of millions of miles away from Earth, Bri is being hunted by some invisible devil whispering in her ear?"

  "And you're just okay with her never getting better?" Belle fired back. Her eyes burned—not with heat, but with the kind of cold fury that comes from watching a friend bleed and being told it's imaginary. "She's our friend. She's spiraling. If the Witches of Jupiter won’t help her—if you’ve already decided to wash your hands of her—then I’ll handle it myself."

  She jabbed a thumb into her chest. "I’ll handle Henryk."

  Himari opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The look in her eyes said more than anything her mouth could conjure.

  The silence between them wasn’t still. It crackled. Like static dancing off a live wire.

  "You realize Esava’s out of excuses, right?" Himari said at last, her voice low, bitter.

  Belle slowly lifted her head.

  "The upper echelon has no need for Witches who break. No matter how powerful. If Bri loses control again, if she so much as screams the wrong way…" Himari’s voice faltered for half a second. "...they’ll toss her into the incinerator. Alive."

  Belle stumbled back a step. "No…"

  "Esava saw it happen," Himari said, her voice now a whisper, hoarse and bruised by memory. "She watched a girl older than both of us get carried away. She screamed. Fought until her throat split open. Didn’t matter. Order is everything to them. And order has no use for madness."

  Her eyes flicked toward the window, as if checking for unseen eyes or ears.

  "The Martians want their Executor intact. After what happened with Penny’s squad and Henryk… they’re watching now. Observing. Waiting."

  "And while they wait, Bri suffers?" Belle spat, every syllable a blade.

  Himari said nothing. Her stare fell to the floor like a fallen soldier.

  "House Mercury is aligned with the Martians now. Gerald, the head of House Pluto? Assassinated days ago. You think this is about Bri? This is about control. It's about the war against the GrimGar, the Oceana System tearing itself apart in a civil war. Esava can’t afford for Bri to look weak when she's hanging by a thread herself."

  Belle’s lips twisted. "So that's what it's come to. The Witches of Jupiter throwing their dogma and their order above the lives of their own."

  Himari looked up, slow and exhausted. Her voice cracked—just barely.

  "Did they ever put lives first? Did they ever give a damn about ideals?"

  Her words were fire and ash.

  "The only thing I ever learned from the Witches of Jupiter was how to weaponize my mind. How to twist language into sorcery, how to twist sorcery into storms that kill by the hundreds. We're not people, Belle-Anne. We’re instruments. We’re born from the blood of dead women. Cloned in silence. Sharpened in solitude. We’ll never hold a child, never grow old with anyone who loves us. We’ll die. And then be born again. Young. Empty. Useful."

  Belle-Anne’s breath hitched. Her fingers trembled as they went to her temples, digging in like she could tear the pressure out of her skull.

  “T-this is too much,” she whispered, voice dry and hollow.

  "Too much?" Himari echoed, blinking like she'd just heard the stupidest thing in the galaxy. Her voice came flat, stunned. "How so?"

  Belle’s eyes dropped to the floor. Her voice came quiet, like she was speaking to the dust between her boots.

  "You don’t have Esava on her knees, begging you to sleep with some boy and let him come inside you... for the good of the Order."

  The room froze with her words. Himari said nothing.

  Belle continued, quieter, angrier. "I can still remember my oath. I swore I’d never take a man’s seed. Never let one fill me like I’m just a conduit, a womb for some ritual. And it was Esava who asked me. The president. The one they say is most likely to become the next Supreme Grand Witch."

  Her voice cracked, bitter like she was spitting up blood.

  "Bri's astral projections made her the eyes of every squad, every lieutenant. She was everywhere, watching everything, and they still threw her into that tank like she was disposable. Sent her into Henryk’s dreams—his mind. No tether, no protection. Like she was some kind of fucking bloodhound for their fear."

  Belle sucked in a breath, shallow and sharp.

  "That’s why she’s like this. Not Henryk. Not some demon. Because they forced her to mess with things she was never ready for. That’s what broke her."

  The silence that followed pressed in on the room like the vacuum of space.

  And then—Himari’s voice came, sharp as glass.

  "Honestly? What’s your problem?"

  Belle flinched. That tone—cold, formal, like a reprimand from a stranger. It wasn't how Himari talked to her. Not before.

  "Excuse me?" Belle said, her voice scraping up defensively.

  "This is because you’re a light mage, isn’t it?" Himari’s voice was flat. Blunt. Cruel in its clarity. "Bottom of the totem pole. Weakest branch of the Witches. You’ve got some flair with a Warcasket, sure—but outside of that, what have you got? No real firepower. No prestige."

  She tilted her head, smiling now—a wicked thing.

  "Oh god," she breathed. "This is projection, isn’t it?"

  Belle’s eyes went wide. "No," she snapped, the word hitting like a slap. "That is not what this is. What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "I bet if Esava had asked you to fuck that boy, you would’ve said yes before she finished the sentence. I bet if it were you being lowered into that vat of freezing water, with no safeguards, no psychic tether, no backup—you would’ve done it smiling. Hoping someone would finally say you were useful."

  Tears stung the edges of Belle’s eyes. She blinked them away, fury and shame tightening in her chest.

  "This is about you never fitting into the Order," she said, voice trembling with rage. "That’s why you keep doing this. Henryk this, Henryk that. He’s your scapegoat. The boogeyman. The easiest one to blame."

  "Of course he is!" Belle shouted, the words exploding from her throat. "HE’S A FUCKING RAPIST!"

  Her voice thundered off the walls, spit flying, raw enough to shred skin. "Out of everyone at the academy, out of everyone—Henryk is the only one I guarantee had a hand in Gerald’s death."

  Himari’s teeth clenched. Her breath came shallow through her nose.

  "I don’t know what kind of high you’re on," she muttered, "but don’t drag Bri down with you. She’s stable. She's healing. Don’t push her. Don’t trigger her again."

  Belle wheeled around, venom in her movement.

  "Like I’ve been the one triggering her?" she hissed, before storming out.

  The door slammed like a gunshot, rattling the frame. Silence fell. Thick, suffocating.

  Himari didn’t move. She stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight, alone with the echo of her own words.

  And with the thoughts she dared not say out loud.

  Mari

  “I had a feeling you’d be here, Commander,” Mari said, her voice laced with a smirk. She planted her hands on her hips, her stance both casual and defiant, as she gazed up at the malt-colored girl standing before her.

  Iman didn’t respond, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, her eyes glazed from the alcohol. The twin pigtails she used to wear had been braided, a dark ribbon snaking down her chest like a sash. She wore simple cream-colored slip-ons, her legs bare beneath a pair of frayed shorts, a light blue shirt draped loosely over her. Despite the plainness of her attire, there was an unmistakable sharpness in the way she held herself—like a razor blade wrapped in velvet.

  Her gaze finally shifted, but only just. She turned her head upward—slow, deliberate—and with it, the bottle of whiskey she’d been nursing, raised toward the artificial sky above.

  “What a view, isn’t it?” Iman muttered, slurring the words, the weight of the drink making her voice sloppier than usual.

  Mari’s eyes followed the line of sight, stretching across the block. Her gaze swept over the sprawling urban expanse, the lights dimming in the distance, the shadows of the city like dark fingers curling against the night.

  Time had passed—weeks now, slipping through the cracks—and here they were, standing on the edge of it all. The Block, once a sprawling experiment of free democracy outside Imperial rule, had become a sanctuary of sorts. A place where minds could breathe, unrestricted by the iron fist of the Emperor or the stifling dogma of the great houses. Here, in this industrial expanse, it felt like one could almost live like the people of the old Earth—a fleeting dream, though, for space was tight, and the sky was growing, expanding, always threatening to swallow the ground beneath them.

  Iman’s voice broke through her thoughts.

  “Mind if I have a seat?” Mari asked.

  Iman didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. A simple, lazy wave of her hand was all the invitation Mari needed.

  Mari smirked, the slight twitch of her lips betraying her amusement, before pushing off the ground with a determined leap. The fluctuating gravity in this sector of the colony made such stunts a little tricky, but Mari had been through worse. She aimed for the side of the two-story apartment, her body propelling itself forward, only for her to misjudge the landing. A jolt of panic surged in her chest as she veered too far, but her hands shot out, gripping the cold metal of the ladder just in time to steady herself. She climbed up with quick, practiced motions, though her heart still pounded in her chest.

  When she reached the top, she understood what Iman was staring at. The city spread out below them in all its industrial splendor. Massive engines roared as they propelled the Block forward through the cosmos, its mighty frame supported by a sprawling network of fuel and resource delegations. And even now, in the dead of night, it was growing—expanding like some living organism with no end in sight. The streets below were quiet, the lamps barely flickering in their dim glow.

  Iman didn’t seem to care.

  She teetered dangerously on the edge of the building, a reckless abandon in her every movement. The night air whipped around her, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t even sway as though the possibility of falling didn’t exist. Her steps were slow, deliberate, her feet just inches from the precipice.

  Mari’s breath caught in her throat. She stepped forward, her voice a whisper of shock. “Iman! You’re crazy—get away from there!”

  But Iman didn’t even glance her way. Her emerald eyes gleamed in the low light, a cold, unreadable fire burning beneath the surface.

  “Nice to know you’re worried,” Iman said, the words almost playful, but there was something darker behind them—something raw.

  Mari swallowed hard. She felt her heart race, her pulse hammering in her ears as Iman shifted, finally stepping back from the edge. She lowered herself beside the older girl, keeping her gaze on the city below, though she couldn’t fully shake the sense of danger that lingered in her chest.

  The silence between them felt suffocating. Iman was a second or third year, years ahead of Mari, who still wore the newness of a first-year.

  Mari scratched at her arm, trying to find something to say, but the words never came. Iman tipped her head back, the neck of the whiskey bottle pressing to her lips as she took another deep swig, gulping it down like it was the last drop of life. The bottle came away from her mouth with a sickening slurp.

  Mari couldn’t tear her eyes away from her. She wasn’t sure why, but something about the way Iman held herself, the way she drank, the way she carried that recklessness like it was armor, made Mari feel... uneasy. Vulnerable, even.

  Iman’s expression didn’t change. She just kept looking out at the dark expanse, her features illuminated in fleeting bursts of light from the dim street lamps below.

  Iman placed the bottle down between them, her hand trembling slightly as she set it down with an almost defiant thud. It sat there, like a wall, a quiet boundary between them. Her other hand swung aimlessly through the air, her fingers twirling as she swayed her head in drunken circles.

  “G-God, I love alcohol,” she slurred, her voice thick with the weight of the drink, followed by a half-laugh, half-burp. She shook her head as if trying to shake off the numbness creeping into her limbs. “It’s my one and only weakness.” She flashed a crooked grin, pointing at her face like some dark joke she was still figuring out. “...But it’s the solution.”

  Mari let out a heavy sigh, watching her carefully, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I didn’t take you for a drinker,” she murmured, as if the admission was some kind of surprise.

  Iman rolled her eyes with exaggerated dramatism, the corners of her lips twitching. “Only on weekends. When you and the others can’t see me. It’s better that way, don’t you think? Keeps things... professional between the seniors and the greenhorns.”

  The words lingered in the air like smoke, thick and sticky, but Iman’s gaze shifted. It grew more calculating, her expression darkening as she took in Mari’s presence. Something about this felt too... random. Almost too convenient.

  The two of them stood there in silence, the city stretching out before them like some vast, inescapable web. Iman, towering above Mari with a certain dominance, her every movement filled with that bristling energy that came from too many secrets. Mari, shorter and with pale skin kissed by sunlight, her dark, curly hair framing her face like a halo of midnight. The city stretched out beneath them, a cacophony of lights and concrete stretching in every direction.

  The Block. A monument to the price of freedom.

  Iman’s sharp green eyes narrowed. “Marcus sent you,” she accused, her tone flat, her words like ice-cold steel.

  Mari, unfazed, grabbed the bottle and took a long gulp, swallowing the sharp burn of whiskey like it was nothing. Her face contorted as the liquor went down, a smile cracking through the discomfort. “Yuck, no wonder my dad and older brothers drink this crap,” she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before setting the bottle down again. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

  Iman sighed, hand sliding up her face as if to hold back the wave of memories crashing over her. “Honestly, Mari, the state I’m in now…” she trailed off, her words faltering as the weight of it all settled on her chest. She grimaced, taking another long swig from the bottle, her eyes flickering toward the skyline as if the stars might have the answers.

  Mari smirked, rubbing her elbow with a casual shrug. “I don’t blame you for remembering. I doubt you real heroes of the Houses even know who us little guys are.”

  “Hero,” Iman repeated the word, her voice laced with bitter amusement. She cast a glance back at the stars above, but there was nothing warm in the glow. “All I am is just a girl who saw too much... too much blood. And... and...” She trailed off, staring at the bottle again, her reflection hazy in the glass.

  Her gaze softened for a moment, a fleeting vulnerability creeping in before she snapped back, placing the bottle aside with a swift motion.

  Mari leaned in, her voice quieter now. “You’re right, Marcus sent me. But I honestly volunteered to come.”

  Iman snorted, a dry, humorless laugh escaping her lips. “Volunteered,” she repeated, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. “You’re making this sound like a real team effort.”

  Mari sighed heavily, her hand resting over her chest as if trying to settle her racing heart. “Commander, you’re genuinely scaring people.” She looked at Iman with something deeper than concern, something raw. “You saved my life a month ago. I owe that to you. But I see it now... I see that you’re hurting. Please, Iman—just—let me in. We can talk, you know?”

  Iman’s eyes widened slightly, her chest tightening as Mari’s words hit her like a blow. For a brief, fleeting moment, she met Mari’s gaze—something almost human flickered behind those emerald eyes. But just as quickly, she looked away, her face hardening as she drew her focus back to the sprawling city.

  Mari drew in a deep breath, her eyes locking on the ground far below her. The sight made her stomach twist—this height, this vastness, made everything feel too distant, too cold. She tucked her legs to her chest, wrapping them tightly as her gaze remained fixed on the dizzying expanse beneath her. Iman watched her, her eyes unreadable.

  "I... I heard things from Marcus," Mari’s voice wavered slightly, as if testing the waters. "You... you follow an Earth religion, right?"

  Iman’s eyes flickered with surprise, the edges of her calm demeanor cracking. "How much did Marcus tell you?"

  "Not much..." Mari answered, her voice soft but steady. "Honestly, Iman. Marcus really respects you, and all he wants to do is help. He just doesn’t want Margaret to cause problems if he starts spending more time with you... but he doesn’t want you alone either."

  Iman sneered, a brief flash of something dark crossing her features, but Mari pressed on.

  "Before I was accepted into House Mercury, I was born on Earth."

  Iman’s eyes widened, the surprise genuine this time. "Y-You were?" she stammered.

  Mari nodded, the weight of her past settling on her shoulders like an invisible burden. "I grew up in the capital city of Columbia. Or what used to be Columbia." She paused, her voice thick with the weight of history. "But my dad and brothers... they’ll never let it go. It’s been centuries since the powers combined, but they still have hope. They still dream of independence. To do that, means..." She trailed off, staring at the lights below them, as if searching for the words.

  "Preserve the old way," Iman finished for her, rolling her eyes in shared frustration.

  Mari met her gaze, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. "It’s a burden," she said quietly. "To be the daughter of men like our fathers."

  "No kidding," Iman muttered, shaking her head, her arms wrapping around herself in a defensive gesture. "If my father knew the things I’ve done here..." Her voice faltered, then she forced herself to continue. "He wouldn’t bat an eye at the killing, but what I did with Henryk... this..." She jerked her head toward Mari, her expression tightening.

  Mari blinked, the misunderstanding clear. She thought Iman was referring to the alcohol between them, not to the real tension beneath the surface. But why would she think otherwise?

  "...However, there’s a difference between being an obedient daughter and being a human being," Mari’s voice dropped, soft and measured.

  Iman fell silent, her gaze distant as her fingers tightened around her shirt.

  Mari continued, her voice a low murmur. "I wish my father and brothers would change. I love them, dearly, but I don’t like how they’ll walk into the house, drop their shoes wherever they please... or leave their plates around the table. And when I tell my mom how unfair it is, how girls in other places don’t have fathers and brothers who order them around like this... she shushes me. Tells me one day I’ll understand. When I’m married, and I have a husband."

  Mari chuckled, the sound bitter but bittersweet. "Sad to tell her, I don’t want to get married. And as for that shitshow of growing up taking care of three man-babies... maybe I’ll settle for one."

  "Ryan will be happy," Iman quipped, a sly edge to her voice.

  Mari sighed, the sound heavy with weariness. "Not really. We broke up."

  Iman’s expression soured. "I... I’m sorry."

  "It was a couple of weeks ago," Mari said, her tone far too casual for the subject. "Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal. We really didn’t have anything in common."

  "Still..." Iman’s voice trailed off, but there was something else there now. A flicker of something deeper. Her eyes darkened, a subtle red tint creeping into her cheeks as she let her gaze roam over Mari’s frame, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

  "It’s sad, but I’ve got friends I can talk to," Mari said with a shrug, her tone light but masking the weight beneath. "Like hell I’m going to tell my mom or dad. They’d kill me. But I bet you knew that."

  Iman’s eyes widened, her thoughts flashing across her face. She looked away quickly, drawing her gaze down toward the city. "I... I honestly don’t know why I feel so screwed up inside," she confessed quietly, her voice breaking the stillness between them.

  Mari was silent, giving her the space she needed. Iman continued, her free hand making a fist as she squeezed her shirt tighter, the fabric crumpling under her grip.

  "Eversince I was a little girl... I was restless," Iman murmured, her voice thick with the weight of long-buried truths. She forced a smile, but it was broken, frayed at the edges. "Motion. That’s the only way I could be. If not, that’s when the thoughts... the memories. That’s when they would come."

  Mari’s brow furrowed, confused. "Memories?"

  Iman shook her head, her voice barely audible above the wind. “…a trait, like the alcohol, that I inherited from a long-dead ancestor.”

  Mari chuckled lightly, but Iman didn’t share in the amusement. She pulled the bottle closer to herself and took a long gulp. She grimaced immediately, her throat burning with the sharp sting of the alcohol, and she coughed harshly, fighting the sensation as her body shuddered.

  “You okay?” Mari asked, her voice concerned. But the weight of what Iman had said had already slipped away.

  It took a good five minutes for Iman to steady herself. Mari, concerned, had one hand on her back as Iman clung to the edge of the building, her body swaying like a fragile leaf in the wind. Their dark hair whipped around their faces, and the chill of the night sank into their bones as their teeth chattered.

  “Damn... Do they have these set up for September?” Iman muttered under her breath, still trying to catch her balance.

  “I miss home... I miss Dubai,” Iman whispered, her voice almost lost to the wind.

  But Mari didn’t hear. Her eyes were focused on the vast horizon, her mind churning. “Back to what you were saying before. I can get that, restlessness. I think a lot of people here have felt it, their whole lives. It’s why they came here, to this... the greatest school in the solar system, the greatest college ever built. What greater honor.” She let out a bitter laugh, her voice carrying a tinge of cynicism. “The price we pay to get great jobs, to make our parents proud, right?”

  The thought, sharp and familiar, echoed in Mari’s mind.

  If I’m already ‘sinful,’ maybe I should just fall all the way.

  Mari sighed, shaking the dark thought away. She reached out, placing a hand gently on Iman’s shoulder. “Iman, we can choose to be the daughters our parents want us to be... or we can choose to be the women we want to be. The choice is ours.”

  She paused, watching Iman carefully, sensing the weight of unspoken turmoil in her. “I know for a fact that my parents won’t accept my choices. Maybe they never will. But I still love them. They’re my family, and I need them. Maybe it’s not the right thing... but it fits my situation. And I only see them a couple of months out of the year.” Mari smiled, a quiet warmth in her gaze, and it was enough to make Iman’s face flush.

  Iman turned away quickly, embarrassed by the heat rising in her cheeks. Mari thought it was just the liquor talking.

  I want softness, and Mari sees me.

  But Iman’s features soured again, a flash of bitterness crossing her face. “I only see my parents once or twice a year,” she muttered, her eyes distant, her voice barely above a whisper. “But we pray together... we eat together... everyone. It feels good. I just... wonder how I can face them with this secret on my chest. This shame.”

  Mari let out a soft chuckle, and Iman shot her a sharp glare.

  “Sorry,” Mari giggled, but her amusement was fleeting. “Iman, you sound ridiculous. You ground on some boy at a party.”

  I don’t care anymore. I want to feel wanted.

  Iman’s eyes widened in shock. “Y-you know!” she gasped, her face going pale.

  Mari sighed, her voice gentle, but firm. “Marcus told me. Iman, who cares...”

  Iman’s hands shot up to her face, her fingers digging into her skin in frustration. “Iman, I don’t know what you’re struggling with right now. Maybe it’s a balance of duty, maybe it’s your feelings, but deep down, you need to center yourself.” Mari’s words were quieter now, but their weight hung heavy in the air.

  Iman glared at the street below, the lights flickering as if they too were part of the turmoil swirling inside her. She felt the weight of Mari’s freedom bearing down on her, and it began to gnaw at her. “You pray... you meditate?” Mari’s voice broke the silence again, the question cutting through the tension.

  Iman snapped her head to the side, her gaze sharpening. She nodded, but her voice was stiff. “Y-yeah,” she answered, her eyes darting away, avoiding Mari’s gaze. “Not many people do.”

  Mari dug into her shirt, pulling out a rosary. The cold metal gleamed in the pale light. “Not many people still worship,” she said softly. “I know the Martians still believe in Catholicism... but I don’t know how far that goes.” Her fist tightened around the cross as she turned to face Iman, the intensity in her eyes unwavering. “Your God doesn’t hate you, Iman. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever is eating at you deep down, pray for forgiveness. And move on. Please.”

  Iman felt the sting of tears, the corners of her eyes burning. She quickly wiped them away, angry at herself for the weakness. “If you can’t forgive Henryk, that’s fine. Hate him. Hate him if that’s what it takes... but stop hurting yourself. Stop hurting others, Iman.”

  Iman took a deep breath, the air feeling heavy in her lungs. She was a warrior. She had survived worse. Far worse than some boy. Fuck Henryk, she thought. He was dead to her. But maybe...

  Mari smiled, the way her blue eyes shimmered beneath the low lights, like a reflection off a thawing glacier. Her pale skin caught the glow in patches, and her voice—god, that soft accent—tickled the air, a ghost of a lullaby that didn’t belong to this battlefield.

  If I make the move, maybe the shame will go away.

  “Mari…” Iman’s voice cracked. In the haze of light, in the flush of alcohol and desperation, Mari looked so much like Henryk. Something about the shape of her face, the slope of her lashes, the fragility—so beautiful in this light.

  Mari gasped, her lips parted as Iman’s fingers trailed across her cheek, a touch too slow, too intimate. The warmth of skin-on-skin lit sparks across Iman’s fingertips. Mari blushed, visibly, the color spreading fast across her porcelain features.

  “I-Iman…?”

  “Don’t call me that,” Iman said. She stepped forward, their bodies nearly brushing. Her voice turned hard, jagged. “Commander. Call me by my title.”

  She grinned—no, bared her teeth like a wolf. There was no softness in her smile. Just heat, just hunger.

  If Henryk won’t want me, maybe Mari will.

  Iman leaned in, pressing her lips against Mari’s—rough, urgent. Her hands cupped the sides of Mari’s face, tilting her head like she was claiming her, staking something. Mari froze for only a moment before her lips began to move, trembling and soft, then more insistent.

  Clothes were a suggestion. Jackets slipped off shoulders, fingers tore at fabric. A clasp snapped somewhere. Hands wandered, greedy and confused and drunk. Breath hitched, mingled.

  Mari moaned, barely audible, “C-Commander… please… not here… I-I didn’t know you were like this…”

  Iman laughed into the kiss, her tongue greedy as she bit softly down Mari’s neck, tasting sweat and perfume and something sad beneath. “I’m going to make you mine, Henryk!” she snarled.

  Mari tensed.

  “What did you just say?” she whispered, voice suddenly flat.

  Iman didn’t stop. Her mouth moved down, leaving red trails along Mari’s collarbone. Her grip tightened. She kissed like she was trying to erase someone else’s name from her tongue.

  Mari’s hands pushed at her shoulders, light at first, then firm. “Stop.” Her voice cracked. “Iman, stop.”

  Iman pulled back, lips swollen, eyes wild. She dropped to her knees, breath ragged. The warmth between them turned cold in an instant.

  Mari stared down at her. Her chest heaved, her shirt rumpled, one sleeve torn. Her hair had come loose from its tie. “You’re hurting,” she said, voice softer now. “And I shouldn’t have let it get this far. This wasn’t… this wasn’t real.”

  Iman said nothing. Her hands hung limply at her sides. Her eyes stared past Mari, locked on nothing.

  Mari’s voice shook. “I thought… maybe… I mean, I didn’t know. And I’m sorry. But I can’t be… I’m not your stand-in.”

  Iman’s lips trembled, but her voice, when it came, was steel. “This. Didn’t. Happen.”

  Mari blinked, stunned. “Iman…”

  “It didn’t happen,” Iman snapped. “We were drunk, okay? That’s all it was. People do this shit at parties all the time in the West—girls kiss each other, they mess around, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  She laughed, but there was nothing soft in it. “You think I’m gay or something?”

  Mari stared for another moment, eyes wide. Her lips moved, but no words came out. Then, without another word, she turned and climbed down the ladder she’d first come up from, her hands shaking on every rung.

  When she was gone, Iman reached for the half-spilled bottle on the floor. She tilted it back and drank deep, the burn in her throat a welcome punishment. She whispered thanks to whatever god hadn’t broken it in the fall.

  Then she hurled it against the wall.

  Glass exploded like fireworks.

  She slumped down, eyes burning, tears spilling as she clutched her knees and trembled in the wreckage. Her voice cracked in the empty room.

  “Freak.”

  She spat the word. Over and over.

  Freak. Abomination. A dozen insults she’d heard growing up and now wore like tattoos under the skin.

  Henryk didn’t want her. Mari didn’t want her. Her family wouldn’t want her if they ever found out—who she kissed, what she wanted, how she felt.

  What was she? Why was she made this way?

  Why the fuck was she born in this universe?

  And so Iman stayed there, crumpled like a broken marionette, lost in the shadow of what might have been. Her chest hitched.

  “I am so fucked up…”