Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Last night I had a dream I was back home. It’s a reoccurring, vivid, honest dream. I can hear the water run from the automatic coffee maker as I lay in my large unshared bed.

 The wafting smell of Java mobilizing me to leave the comfort of my warm sheets. And I do. I slip on my black open toes slippers . I walk to the kitchen and smile tiredly as I pour myself a cup of coffee in my chipped blood donation mug that earned by donating 10 gallons of blood.

The birds chirp outside the kitchen window and I groan at the sound of a nearby lawnmower revving up. I take a sip of coffee and pull it away as it burns my tongue. It’s all tangible, it’s all real.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

And as I sit my mug down on the counter, the sound of rapid taps pull my attention away from my search for creamer. I look around, trying to discern where it’s coming from.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The tapping is louder than the lawnmower, it’s louder than my thoughts. It's so blaring, consistent even. I check the front door, the owindows, to no success.

I decide to forgo creamer, my coffee is surely cool enough. As I pick up the mug again, I’m pulled from my reality with a forceful-no- an abrupt, awakening.

My eyes open wide and I look around me frantically, it takes me 30 seconds to remember where I am. I’m in a green crappy van that’s almost akin to the Scooby doo Mystery machine if it had a decade of rust around its trim. The sun is rising, and the air is covered with a thin mist like fog.

Tap Tap Tap.

It’s a police officer with an irritatingly familiar face. Hitting my window repeatedly with the butt of his turned off flashlight. Only stopping once he sees my open eyes.

I manually roll the window down. “Officer Dok”, I greet plainly. It’s impossible to hide the exhaustion from my voice and I don’t even attempt to cover it.

“Y/N, you can’t park here overnight. I can’t keep giving you these warnings kid.” He says it as if he’s doing me a favor.

“Not a kid.” I mutter tiredly. It’s exhausting to argue this point for me. I don’t grant the particular the passion it rightfully deserves. Not this time. I nod. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. “ I try to say it as sincerely as possible. Of course I could care less about any laws I’m violating here. Surely there is some galactic or spiritual law being broken by me even being here at all. But Nile was a sweetheart, he left me alone at night for the most part. Only bugging me when the sun was up or if giving me the occasional ‘piece of advice’. Completely unaware that I'm only 5 years younger than him.

I don’t even remember falling asleep in this lot the night before . The last thing I can remember before dozing off is trying to figure out my next move. Officer Nile was a pain, but only because he was a familiar face. He was a consistent reminder that I’m not where I belong .

“Move the van from the lot, Y/N.” His tone is stern. Much like he’s taking to a know nothing child. I’ve lost track of how many warnings I’ve gotten from him.

“I keep telling you my name is Elena now."

 Dok scoffs. “ And I keep telling you that’s cute and all, but you still need to move this tin can out the parking lot. You’re loitering and it makes the businesses look bad.” I turn the keys in the ignition, it takes whirling turns before the engine pops and revives back to life.

“I’m moving it, I'm moving it.” And with a wave I pull out of the unoccupied parking lot. I drive to a nearby park several blocks away and park the truck on a side street. I sigh as I relax back into my seat as the van falls back to its undeserved slumber.

This isn’t my home, this isn’t even my world. One night I fell asleep reading attack on titan fanfiction and by some cruel curse, bad luck, or punishment by Satan, I ended up as a nameless character. A character who would be obsessed over by the two male leads of the story. Before I went to sleep I was a 30 year old painter in Brooklyn, and now I’m a 20 year old who lives in her van after running away from home after she turned 18. Blessed with a name ‘Y/N’.

I place my head on the steering wheel. Frustration bubbles inside of me, but there is nothing that can quell it but a moment of silence. This will be my 3rd incarnation in this story. The first time, I tried to be more reasonable than the character who I possessed. But not one to be controlled, I ended up being throw out of a window by Levi after biting him one too many times. I tsk at the memory. Rubbing the side of my head, as if the glass is still embedded into the back of my skull.

Erwin killed me in the next life, in a fit of uncontrolled rage I hadn’t seen before. As I felt my soul drift away, I watched as he cried. Not sobs, but loose tears fell down his face as he looked down at my dead form. I’m sure if I hadn’t reset, this body I reside in would have ended up in a landfill. I touch my neck and I can still feel his large, slightly calloused hands clenching around my throat after I told him I didn’t need him or his help.

While I watched all empathy leave his eyes, I didn’t even try fighting him off. Just to wake back up in this truck on a cold September morning, ready to go to my first day of community college. Cliche, if you ask me. The first thing I did was drop out and get a refund. $6,327, how long can I make that last living in a van? Financially, I should be able to leave. Catch a plane, train, or even just drive until the tank is empty.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 I felt so desperate to escape all the death flags before me. But the town we’re in seems to have a mind of its own. Every attempted to flee town was met with some outside force stopping me. A landslide. A hurricane. A goddamn flood. Every single time. I can tell the god of this world is laughing at me. I bite my lip biterly. This time I’ve been here for 2 months and managed to avoid both Erwin and Levi’s attention for now. After being murdered twice, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be a shut in who only leaves her van for food or a quick shower at the gym. I glance outside my drivers seat window. The park is empty, from as far as I can see. Maybe it’ll be worth it to stretch my legs. Get out my head. So I do.

I grab my pink tote bag. I’m sure it was Y/N’s favorite color. Several items of hers were the same shade of orchid pink, from the bag to the dirty converses on my feet. I groan as i think of it. i make a mental note to get her some more neutral , less attention grabbing colors. I’m more partial to greens myself. I check the bag and with a pleased hum I exit this Steel can I’ve called home. The air is crispy and fresh. a cool November morning. Perfect for park sitting, especially at 8 am. It’s quiet, and most people will be at their jobs, school or still asleep. I settle on a park bench and pull out my sketch book.

Y/n was pretty, a typical oc. Slim, with wavy brown hair that reached that she often kept in a loose bun and almond shaped green eyes . She had a broad but slightly upturned nose, wide plump lips with a heart shaped face. Dainty like a fawn and she was no taller than 5’3. I groan in disgust as I pull out my sketch book. Y/N was cute, cute like a child. A baby face. I tap my pencil on the paper I front of me, rolling up my grey flannel sleeve, I draw a line and then quickly erase it. ‘I miss being 30.’

I start sketching a nearby pigeon that landed near me. When it’s like this I can almost forget that this isn’t where I belong. Drawing now done, I hear my stomach growl at me angrily. I stuff the sketch book back into the orchid tote. I stand up and check my the small internal pocket of the bag. While I had some money, I made sure to keep the bulk of it in the bank. Softly, I count out loud the coins and crumpled bills in my bag.

“$17.56… $18.56… $19.12… $19.23….$19.87.”

I internally sigh. I miss being rich. Well, not rich but good enough at I didn’t have to count pocket change and or draw cheap caricatures in the park for spending money. Clutching the money in my hand, I walk the 3 blocks to a nearby café. My mouth waters at the smell of the fresh bread and Smokey expresso. There’s a short line, and I fall inline with everyone else. It’s calm, I almost forget I’m in a story, that’s I’m not home. I take a step forward as the line moves up.

Maybe I’ll get a croissants. Maybe a breakfast wrap. Can I get a coffee too? Maybe if it’s small.

“Y/N?” I feel like my blood ran cold. My spine somehow replaced by a stone pillar as my vertebrae straightens.

‘Ignore it,’ my- or maybe Y/N’s voice commands me. I take another step forward. The pressure, the feeling of a looming presence behind me is almost suffocating. The air feels tense as I try to act normal. It’s my turn to order.

“Good morning. What can I get up ma’am?” The cashier is easy going and relaxed. Unaware of my plight. I swallow to moisten my throat. “Ah, um.” I knew what I wanted before I heard that deep thundering voice, now the only thing on my mind is running away and not turning back.

“Ma’am?” The barista repeats. I shake my head. “Sorry, sorry. “ I mutter quickly. ‘Just order and go.’ The internal voice commands. ‘ 2 croissants, and a water.’ “2 croissants and a water, please.” I repeat as if I was automated. “Bottled water or would you like a cup.” I shake my head. “Bottled please.” He smiles and presses several buttons on the monitor.

“And would you like those croissants warmed?” I shake my head. I want it now, there’s no need to dawdle. Not with the prince of lies; the father of darkness behind me.

“That’ll be $14.85.” 

I hurried hand him of all the money in my hand and give it to him wordlessly. Shifting anxiously as he counts out my change I place my hand on the counter.

“I don’t need change. You can keep it.” The cashier smiles and gives me a chipper thank you before handing me my receipt. I make sure not to turn around. At the other end of the counter, sits my bottled water and plated croissants. I curse under my breath and stuff the bottled water into my bag and place one croissant gingerly between my teeth and wrapping the other in a napkin and harshly shove it into my bag.

‘Run.’

No, no there’s no need to run. Just leave quickly, wordlessly. You don’t have to interact with him. You don’t have to. Just leave normally. I turn to leave, but before I can reach the door there’s a gentle grip on my wrist. A touch that I’m well aware can be drastically change from lamblike to callous in an instant. “Y/N? I knew it was you.” Erwin gives me a gentle good natured smile. It’s not a false smile but it’s still measured and precise. I drop my pastry from my mouth in surprise. I swallow. My voice comes out weakly, cracking in a pathetic way that makes me feel worse that my casual facade is ruined.

“I-I’m sorry. Do..do I know you?”

‘Nice one.’

The voice mutters to me sardonically. This internal voice is cruel to all, including me. Erwin, had the decently to drop his measured smile and replace it with an unfeigned solicitous look. He release my wrist in an instant. I bring my unviolated hand to it and cover my wrist as it it’s exposed an exposed breast.

“I apologize. I didn’t intend to startle you. Y/N.” If I hadn’t known better, I’d think he was unassuming and kind. Obviously misjudged, a handsome fixture with browns too thick and deep ocean blue eyes that can see through any thickness of skin and reach the depths of your soul. He touches his chest in an apologetic manner. “It’s been some years so I’m not offended that you don’t remember me. You were practically a baby.” He says reminiscent.

‘Nod slow and leave.’

 I swallow and nod my head. “I’m sorry Mr ?” I say it slowly as if trailing off.

“Erwin is fine. Your father and I used to be coworkers.” He gives another warm measured smile as he stare down at me. His stature is overwhelming, especially in this minute body. I silently cursed her small frame. In my own world, I was 5’8 and 254 lbs. hardly anyone intimidated me. But compared to this 120 LBS woman, whose height reminded me of my middle school years; my confidence didn’t stand a chance. I nod, my face still serious. Etched with stress no doubt. I learned a lot being in his home those past two lives. He can read your faces emotions like Helen Keller to braille.

His smile falters. Maybe his mind is racing to figure out his next next approach.

‘Leave.’

I need to leave. The door behind me pushes open as an older woman enters the cafe. I automatically take a side step. And Erwin did the same. “Excuse us.” He says politely. Gentlemen like, voice smooth as velvet. The woman smiles sweetly at him. Looking grateful that he even spoke to her.

“No problem.” She seems to walk slower to the counter than needed.

“Mr Smith, it was good seeing you. “ I say it quickly. Don't even give him a chance to talk.

“I’ll tell my dad you said hi. “

Y/N hadn’t spoken to her father in 2 years. Erwin doesn’t need to know this, it’s information he used to his advantage in the past. Erwin shoulders drop. His smile lessens and becomes more relaxed. “I haven’t seen him in 7 years. Here, give this to him. “ He pulls a card out of his pocket and holds it out to me.

‘Don’t take it.’ But I do. There’s no reason not to. It’s not for me, it’s for ‘my dad.’ I nod, my eyes still looking at his cautiously as I carelessly put the card in my tote bag. Erwin’s relaxed smiles seems to twitch at that. But he carries on his act. “I don’t mean to keep you.”

“It’s alright.”

‘Leave’

“Let me get you another pastry, it’s my fault you dropped that one.” My eyes leave his looming presence present for a brief moment, darting to the abandoned buttery confection on the floor.

‘Don’t take anything from him.’

I shake my head. “I wasn’t meant to have it. Don’t worry about it.”

Erwin’s brow quirks at that. “A masochistic sentiment.”

‘Fuck you.’

I smile politely. “Goodbye Mr Smith.” I’m surprised at how even my tone is. He nods. “It was good seeing you Y/N.” I nod and then turn around and leave out the cafe door. My heart pounds as i quickly walk back the park to the safety of my van. I open the back doors and climb inside.

Shutting it harshly behind me, tying the door off with a thick chain and a combination lock. A safety precaution of a young woman living in the streets of a mid sized mountain town in god knows where U.S.A. The information is never clear. The id in my pocket had a city and state. And yet whenever I look at it, it has a strange glare over it that blocks it from my view. No one else seems to notice, and no one else will say. It’s all absurd. I sit on the folded futon and lean again the van walls.

“Why do people live in vans.” It’s so uncomfortable, maybe I’m not doing it right. I take a deep breath and try to loosen the tension in my shoulders my shaking a little. Seeing Erwin had me unnerved. The plan this time around was to completely avoid him. Shut him down completely. Because scarce and unavailable. In the fanfiction story, Erwin offered the original character financial support, school assistance, essentially everything a parents would offer their child. The female lead took the bait, not knowing said benefactor was luring her into his trap.

Making her dependent and him and his loyal dog deeply rooted into her everyday life. Keys to her apartment that he co-signed on, a job at a store his best friend owned, a credit card. All too much. Only when he insisted that she move in with him was when the alarm bells went off. By that point it was too late. Everything she had, Erwin had his fingers in. When she went cold, he went colder. She lost her job, apartment, and before she knew it, she freedom. It was a gut wrenching guilty pleasure. I read it multiple times. That didn’t mean I wanted to live through it.

The first time I thought it was just a dream. I played along with the plot until I realized when was happening. I didn’t let it get so far that Erwin helped sign his lease, but I had taken the job offer once I realized I couldn’t leave town no matter how hard I tried. But instead of being ambushed like in the story with a tranquilizer and a headlock by Levi. I was offered a drink by Miche a month after avoiding Erwin. Restaurant owner and completely off my radar.

The original story hadn’t mentioned him, only mentioning that she lost her job without much of an explanation. I figured I’d loss the job again, but with the good money I was making. I figured I’d milk it until I could wake up somehow. Miche offered me a lemonade at closing time; boozed with tequila and a salted rim. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” He said with a a grin wink. To me it was endearing.

I'm a 30 year old woman trapped in the body of a freshly turned 20 year old. I was partial to a stiff fruity drink at the best times, and even more so that I found myself in this fictional word with a body that wasn’t accustomed to my desires. With the lingering threat of Erwin preying on my vulnerabilities, I didn’t say no. If I had remembered for even a second that this was a 38 years old man and to his knowledge I was wet behind the ears 20 year old,I wouldn’t have taken it. It was sweet and strong, and knocked me on my ass. I cursed her for having a low tolerance but when I woke up in a childlike pink bedroom, with Levi checking in my condition after being out for 2 days straight, I finally understood.

This world is like this by design. It’s safe to say I shouldn’t trust anyone with ties to the franchise. I pick up a keepsake box off the van floor. Opening it up I pull out a paper rolled joint. I place it delicately between my lips as I fumble for the lighter. The familiar plastic meets my hand and I can’t help but smile to myself.

Y/N didn’t smoke, but I damn sure did. The flicker of the lighter would bring me relief soon enough and I would enjoy my hot box home for as long as I could. Flick. A deep inhale. Hold Release The smoke leaves my lungs as quickly as it entered, filling the with a dense layer of murk. I cough roughly, the burning in my chest being too much.

“You- “ack!”, have bit-“ack!”, bitch lungs.’ “Ack!”. I try to push my first experience of death out of my mind.

‘He deserved to have than just his fingers bitten off.’ You console.

But I don’t want to be consoled. I want to push the memory far into the back of my mind but it rises like rested dough. I flinch as I recall how Levi had shoved his index and middle finger down my throat because I wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

‘It was surprisingly easy to bite through.’

I take another inhale of my joint, tapping the lit tube on the edge of my ashtray as I exhale. “Like carrot sticks.” I had never been hit so hard before in my life. I felt disoriented from the first swing. I thought for a moment the roof fell on us. He dragged me by the hair and tossed me through the 2nd floor window.

“Overkill” ‘Overkill’, I and the inner voice say unanimously.

I thought to myself, ‘Finally, I don’t have to keep living through the indignity of being a being a pseudo-child for one freak and a dog to the other.’

Imagine my utter surprise when instead of going back to my own life, I returned back admissions office, the day I met Erwin while getting lost on the first day. It was easy enough to avoid him when I knew where he was. I feel calmer now. The van is filled with thick smoke, and even if my eyes weren’t heavily lidded, I wouldn’t be able to see my hand in front of me. I sit let the half smoked joint rest in the ashtray and I feel the pang of hungry again. Anxiety settled, I go back into my pink bag and pull out the napkin wrapped croissant. I bite into in without a second thought. The business card Erwin gave me catches my eye, it’s white with gold and black print.

‘Pretentious.’

I rip it in half. I have no plans on getting wrapped up in this shit again. I’ll live like a ghost, avoiding you until I can get back home. Out of this fucking nightmare.

Chapter Text

There’s a special kind of anxiety you get when die and come back to life in the past as if nothing ever happened. Some would call it a paranoid delusion but since it’s happened to me twice now, I’ll call a spade a spade. It’s a massively fucked up time.

There is a constant churning ache in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away. My hands tremble more often than not. All of my teeth throb. A clenched jaw will do that to you. I wake up covered in sweat even though it’s November and snow is expected soon. The only time I crave food is when I want the pain in my stomach from not eating to go away, and even then, it’s a few bites before it starts to taste like I don’t want it in my mouth any longer. There are dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping enough. But the worst of all is the tightness I feel all over. Her feet, legs, back, her everything. It feels like I’ve run 10 miles without stretching and then ran 10 more just for kicks. These complications are how I found myself here.

I stand in front of a little nail shop downtown. Black painted brink with large glass windows that let you see everything inside. A glass push door with the business hours in white Franklin Gothic lettering. Nail house by Carly is written in neon green lights above the large window. A shelf with nail colors ranging in different shades, another with oils, lotions, and such. Three manicure stations lined up on one wall and three pedicure massage chairs against the other.  I’ve passed this fine establishment multiple times in this life and the last two. There’s only every one person working here. Ms. Carly.

It’s late. But not late enough for her empty nail salon to be closed. Ms. Carly keeps late hours. Just my luck because there's only one person here that I need to speak to. I push open the glass door. It responds by chiming. Beautiful red headed Carly comes out from a room in the back room, not looking up to see who entered her shop at nearly 10 at night. “Honey, you're late an-

She stops speaking when she sees me. Carly is prettier than her animation. Bouncy red hair, bright brown eyes. Very well polished in her denim jeans and white button up blouse. I'm dressed in sweats, but who says beauty should supersede comfort? I'm certainly not vying for a pageant crown today. I give a small wave. Her bottom lip juts out and she puts a hand on her hip.

“I’m sorry, we’re actually closed right now.”

I shake my head.

“I’m not here to get my nails done.”

Carly well-groomed brows furrow. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Looking to schedule an appointment? I have some availability in the morning that could work for you."

Carly walks past me and over to the desk by the front door. I turn to look at her as she pulls a thick long black book. An appointment book. I frown.

“I don’t need an appointment either.”

I say firmly causing her to pause her movements.

“Then I can’t help you.” 

Carly closes her book. I walk over to her desk, standing in front of her. I pull out five crisp hundred-dollar bills from my tote bag and sit them on her desk before pushing them forward toward her. She looks down at the money and then back at me.

“A manicure is only $35.”

I stifle a budding laugh. What’s the point in being pretending that the blatantly obvious isn’t what’s happening.

“Did I ask you for a manicure?”

I give her a forced smile. Carly doesn’t return it. I sigh.

“I know you don’t know me. But my money is good, and I won’t make you take me to dinner if you wanna frisk me for a wire. “

Carly rubs her temple.

“Wire? I don’t- I don't know what you’re talking about.”

Still playing dumb. I glance around her shop. It’s well organized and clean. Her cosmetology license hangs on the wall with her photo attached behind her.  It's taken at a bad angle, and her hair is frizzy, it's a pale comparison to who stands in front of me. 

“Your picture doesn’t do you justice.”

I nod towards the certification. Carly’s shoulders seem to relax at the change of topic as she turns and looks.

“I said the same thing. They wouldn’t let me take it again. Can you believe that?”

I smile.

“It seems like something they’d do.”

 They. Subjectively, anyone who isn’t us. Except, there isn't any us. Not really. We are just two women with two separate goals that happen to align. One woman trying to run her business under the radar and the other trying to convince her that she’s not wearing a wire ready to put her in jail for 15-25 years. I tap my foot.

“your shop is beautiful..” I start calmly as I glance thoughtfully around.

The corners of Carly’s mouth twitch at that. She doesn’t get a chance to respond before I speak again.

“You get maybe a customer or two a day. But you’re here almost all day. Ton of foot traffic too. Men mostly," I muse.  I don't need to look at her to tell she's searching for the words to refute what I'm saying.

:"But something in my gut tells me they aren’t here because they’re open minded or the sensitive type”

Carly’s eyes widen comically. I put my hands up in a surrendering motion.

“I’m not working for anyone. I just need what you have.”

Carly eyes are focused on my hands.

“Informants tend to bite their nails a lot.” I glance at my fingers. Informants bite their nails.  I'd hadn't heard that one before.

“You know a lot of informants?”

Carly coughs. And coughs again bending over. Maybe my question caught her off guard.

“Sorry.” Carly says as she stands back up.

I don’t move to help her, I just put my arms down to my sides. Once she recovers, she picks up five bills. Holding them up to inspect in the dim light. 

“No one sent you here?”

I shake my head slowly.

“No one sent me here.” I repeat.

A pause. And then another. It feels like a stand down. Carly finally sits at her deck. She puts the money in the same drawer she pulled the appointment book from.

“So, what do you want?”

Carly doesn’t look at me when she asks. I take no offense. 

"Oxys and pot.” 

Carly pauses for a moment. 

"Oxy's and pot? Nothing else?"

I shake my head.

"I'm not so complicated that I need whatever else it is you cook up in the back."

Carly lets out a relieved sigh.  She stands and walks over to her windows, closing the blinds on both and the glass door before returning back to her desk. She pulls out a black gift bag and places a bag of weed, and another bag of round white pills inside of it.

“How many and what’s the dose?”

The details matter. Carly holds out the bag towards me.

“Half an ounce and 13 pills, 20 milligrams.”

I take the bag.

“I’ll be back.”

I don’t mean to sound as ominous as I do. Carly glances at my hands again.

“You should let me make you that appointment. Your nails will thank me.”

I resist rolling my eyes.

“That’s a luxury I can’t afford. “

“But you just spent $500 on product.”

I blink. Who asked her?

“I have my priorities Just like you.”

Carly rest her head against her hand.

“I won’t charge you for a manicure. Consider it a throw in freebie.”

I try to think of a reason to say no. Carly smiles at me. It’s a charming, sweet smile.

“Come on. I can paint them up real nice for you and you can tell me how you made me so quick.”

I give her another forced smile. My jaw aches and I’m exhausted.

“I've read ‘The Cartel’, okay? I know what a front looks like.”

Carly’s smile lessens.

“I’ll still do them for you. If you keep coming in and out with nails like that it’ll be even more obvious right?”

She had a point.

“I’ll see you when I need more.” I say before leaving out the door.

The chime follows me along with a “Come again soon!” From Carly.

I hope she doesn’t try to get chummy. If I wanted to make it a social call, I’d have made the dam nail appointment. The blowing wind feels like knives cutting across my face. My hand tightens around my bag of goodies as I walk towards my van. It’s getting colder. Van life is okay enough for autumn, maybe even spring. I can only imagine summers would be the worst. Winter; winter is a pain in the ass.

I pull my keys from my pocket and shakily put them in the car door. I climb in quickly. Locking the door behind me and I settle into my seat with a sigh. I pull out the baggie of white round pills and take one. This isn’t the normally the route I’d go, but I’ll forgive myself considering all I’ve been through. I swallow it down with a half drunken bottle of water I left in my cup holder some time ago. It’s not long before I feel normal. The ache in my belly is gone, my teeth don’t hurt, and best of all my body felt like it finally unclenched itself.

This life I’m in as been nothing agony. Self-medication is logical, and dare I say, a kindness. If only I hadn’t run into that handsome blonde-haired, blue eyed, chiseled chin, jackass. No. What? Not handsome. Murderous? It’s a bit closer to the truth but it still doesn’t fit just right. I slowly stumble into the back of my van and lay out my bedding. I cover myself with an electric blanket. I’ll thank any and all gods that its battery powered. But back to Erwin. Erwin. Erwin is a bastard. That’s it. That’s all. A controlling bastard who thinks he knows what’s up from what’s down. I wish he was ugly, or his eyebrows took up his entire face. I turn over onto my side.

"Hey God," I say under my breath. I feel so good right now. " I've joined Anna Nicole Smith and Heath Ledger in pill popper's paradise. Can't we just agree I've learned my lesson?" 

The only answer in return is the wind howling against the metal walls around me.

"You fucker," I mutter to no one but myself. If there is a god, I've either been abandoned, forgotten, or punished for something I can't put my finger on. I'm a good person. This shit shouldn't be happening to me. Although, most people think they're good, that doesn't make it true. Like many things, being a good person is subjective. 

Chapter Text

When I was 15, my aunt Brielle got me a copy ‘The alchemist.’ When she put it in my hand she smiled knowingly and said with the confidence only a woman who outlived 5 husbands could have,

‘This is going to change your life.’

I didn’t take her seriously. This was the same woman who told me ten years later that I’m never really broke as long as I have a Vagin and pushed for me to marry her 63-year-old brother-in-law. Of course, I gently refused. But to her credit, one part of Paulo Coelho’s work stuck with me.

When you want something, the whole universe conspires in order for you to achieve it.

Those words were like a lit candle in a dark windowless room. A piece of literature that inspired me more than anything in the Bible ever could.

Mére Elaine called me a blasphemous whore after reading that little tidbit in my diary. I ended up getting 'Femme de Péché' tattooed on my lower back in memory of her when she passed away.

But it wasn’t God's words in my head when lied my way backstage at a Spice Girls' concert. Or when I painted a thick black line with a wide brush up a 24x36 canvas and called it ‘Duality of man’. An elderly couple bought it off me for $2200 after I accidentally added the second zero on my Craigslist post. They praised me for my minimalist style. Called me innovative, even though I knew it was lazy bullshit. Coincidently, what I was paid was the exact amount I needed for a trip to Thailand I was saving for.

I believed in those words, like a mother’s promise to her a foolish child. I believe that the universe was always conspiring in my favor, for me and my benefit. If fate was real, then I was her maker.

So if the universe, fate, God, myself is always conspiring in my favor, why the fuck is Erwin looking at my steaming engine on the side of the road with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows? 

The car had been making odd sounds all day. But that’s normal, it always made those sounds. Persistent flicking, like taps to a window from a flimsy branch. Occasional popping that reminded me of microwave popcorn. Then my favorite, the squealing. Like nails on a chalk board every time my foot pressed against the breaks. A real symphony of mechanical distress.  They used to be terrifying, but now I find them comforting.  Never did it break down or get a flat. As long as this car didn't break down, I reasoned I wouldn't break down either. 

Sooner than later, I hope to stop musing. 

I had been driving down a back road, my hair still damp from my shower at the woman’s fitness gym. The heat was cranked and there was a slight fog inside the van from all the bowls I had smoked after. I was so lost in my thoughts, that I hadn't noticed a new sound to the vehicle's orchestra. Hissing. Low hissing.

My attention span only came back into focus when I noticed that smoke wasn't just on the inside of the windshield, but from under the hood.

“Shit,” I said under my breath. I had very little experience dealing with car troubles. I got an ear full when I added olive oil to my first car when I was 16. My heart sank further when the smell hit me. The acrid burnt scent filled my front seat mingling with the faint scent of the lingering cannabis in the air.

My coolness was now replaced with a sense of irritation and dread. I gripped the steering wheel tightly with one hand and wiped the window with the other as I tried to find an appropriate place to stop.

My knuckles turning white as I try to see past the rising smoke. The road was isolated, framed by thick tall trees on both sides that loomed ominous shadows over the road. Warning signs of deer the only real sign that people come here often enough to need a warning. I cursed myself for not driving in a more populated area.

In front of me stood an endless ribbon of road with no traffic in either direction. Behind me mirrored the same. I hadn’t driven past anyone in the last twenty or so minutes.

“Come on baby,” I murmured to the van, willing it to get its shit together so we can be on our way. But instead of listening to my pleas, the engine sputtered and the white smoke thickened. There was no choice but to relent; I slammed my foot on the break, the squeal it made sounded like a pained animal. I pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the suffering beast. The sounds that just soothed me flooded me with nothing short of anxiety.

My mind was hazy, and the smoke inside and out wasn’t helping my thought process at all. I fumbled for my phone in the back, a phone that had zero contacts inside. I only got it to use the GPS, but I suppose it could be of some real use now.

I was flooded with doubt; what if the van was unsalvageable? Would I have to sleep somewhere else? Is roadside assistance covered by the car's insurance? Did I even have insurance?
I reach into the glove box. I fumbled through paperwork and used and unused EpiPen's, who's purpose still remain a mystery to me.

'Found it.' 

 'Y/N' had her car insured for the next 6 month. Goody. My lidded eyed look for the paper as I take my keys out the ignition. I finally smile once I find the number for roadside assistance, only to throw the paperwork down when I see I have zero bars on my cell.

“Well, isn’t this just peachy," I mutter to myself in exasperation.

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat next to the abandoned insurance policy.
I get out the van. The cold air hits me hard like walking into a walk-in freezer on a hot summer day. I shiver and hug my arms to my chest as I walk around to the hood and lift it up, wincing as the cloud of steam hits my face. I was forced to take a step back. Once it cleared, I looked down at the engine for maybe five minutes.

‘I have no clue what I’m looking at.’

A jumble of metal, hoses and wires. The van might as well had been the Challenger. I was about as likely to fix a rocket-ship as I was this junker. I rarely drove in my own world. Reliant on Ubers so I could space out on the drive and not worry about things like insurance or car maintenance. I didn’t appreciate it enough it seems.

I shiver and my teeth chatter reminding me of those old cartoons. The shirt I’m wearing is way too thin for the season. When this vehicle debacle is over, I’ll buy a coat. I shouldn’t have put it off, but it’s putting in any work for this life that’s not even mine feels fleeting. It’s bad enough that I took the college experience from her, but been there, dropped out, done that. Why would I repeat a boring aspect of my own life here.

Just as I’m about to go back inside the van to keep warm a black car whose model I’m not familiar with drives past, slows down and does a U-turn and pulls to the side of the road in front of my van. I’m shivering, but this time it’s not because of the cold. I know this car.
The door opens with a click. In black slacks and caramel sleek coat, out he steps. Brows furrowed in recognition as he walks closer. My heart throbbed in my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

“‘Y/N, I almost didn’t recognize you.” He says it in a relived sort of way. Shoulders relaxed and a small smile on his face. As if he’s under some sort of obligation to help me. I suddenly don’t feel as high as I felt before, my mind alert now for danger is at my very heels.
“ Mr. Smith.” I greet, with an even tone that I don’t know how I manage. I hug myself tighter. My arms a faux shield around me. Erwin pauses in his steps, a weary expression in his eyes.

“Car problems? Can I take a look?” His voice is irritatingly calm, coaxing even. I turn back to face the slightly steaming engine.
“Yea, it’ll be fine. I can walk until I get service to call roadside, so you don’t have to worry about getting your coat dirty.”

There’s a silence behind me, but only for a beat.
“You don’t have service?”

The wind howls lowly as it cuts through the road and into the trees. If this was a movie id think it was a cliche to add such an ominous sound at this moment.

I must be an idiot, or higher than I thought. I inwardly curse myself.

“Not this far up in the sticks, no.”

What horrific luck I have. This isn’t his normal route to work, so what is he even doing here? The threat of bile rising from the back of my throat haunts me as much as his presence does.
I hear shuffling and I turn my head . One must never turn their back on the enemy. A cautionary rule for a world full of caution and corruption.

Erwin has slipped off his coat and taken several steps to end up by my side.
“Hold this for me.” He pushes his coat into my hands before I can protest.
“You don’t have to do that.” I say trying to give him back his coat, but he isn’t even looking my way.
His coat is warm, in my hands, the texture smooth and heavy. Wool maybe.
Erwin doesn’t respond. He glances over my engine without expression. I shiver and absentmindedly flip the collar of his up to look at the tag. Anything to distract myself.

70% Wool
30% Nylon
Dry clean only.

“Y/N?”
I glance up. Had he been calling me?
“Hmm?” The less words I give the better.

He gazed at me with intense concern. It felt like he held that skeptical, worrisome expression for hours when in actuality it was mere seconds.

“I asked you where your coat was.”

Erwin gives me a concerned look over, at my arms bare damp shoulders of my shirt.
“Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”

I pull Erwin’s coat tightly to my chest. A makeshift faux shield that offers zero protection from his inquisitive eye.

“Oh, uh,” I glance back down at the coat in my hands.
“It gets warm in the van, so I didn’t bring my coat.” An easy reasonable excuse. An excuse I shouldn’t have to give because I’m not a child.

“And your hair?” He inquired, curiosity not yet satisfied.
“I took a shower at the gym.”

Erwin’s side eye reads disapproval, but he doesn’t comment. Thank fucking God for that small miracle.

Erwin continues to fiddle with the engine, checking hoses and pulling out nozzles. Pretending to be a good fucking citizen. An all-American hero with blue eyes. Maybe I’d have fallen for it, in another life. But not here.

“I still haven’t heard from your father.” He says casually. He's intent seeking an explanation no doubt. I shift my feet and push my damp hair back off my forehead.

“Really? I gave him your card.” I lie easily.

The man who is my father isn’t even a person I’ve met. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t want to know. Just one more irritating piece of lore.

“He’s a busy man. I’m sure he’ll get to it eventually.”

Erwin hums in response.
Despite the cool chill in the air, I feel droplets forming on the back of my neck. Not from my damp hair but sweat.

Huh.

A gust a wind hits us and sends another chill back up my spine.

“How odd.” His tone is light, musing almost.

I swallow a lump in my throat. Me, the overthinking, ever perceptive and well versed in shifts of tone and room reading. At least when sober.

“I wouldn’t call it odd. People grow apart, don’t they?”

I don’t like mind games. Not when I was the prey at least. Erwin doesn’t give me the satisfaction of responding. There’s a faint smile on his lips that makes me feel nauseous.

“There’s a crack in coolant tank. It’s an easy fix. I might have some duct tape in my trunk.”
I barely comprehend his words. My hands and trembling and he mistakes it for me being cold. Erwin’s amused face goes back to his sickeningly worried expression, and he takes my coat from my hands and wraps it around my shoulders. It’s gentle, its kind, it’s a fucking trap.

“Why don’t you wait inside my car while I fix it. It’s warm.”
His hands are still on my shoulders. I can’t look him in the eyes. I focus on my engine. My legs are trembling, begging me to run. But run where? Not at all fast, with no place to go.
“Y/N?” Erwin’s voice calls me softly. I barely catch it over the sound of my drum like heartbeat.

“That-“I start and stop. I take a breath.

“I can wait in my van. It’s still warm inside.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He counters without harshness.

My frown deepens. I’m losing the battle with my stomach. I roughly shrug his heavy weighted hands off my shoulders.
“ With all due respect, “ I start with forced conviction.

“You know, you’re basically a stranger to me.”
Erwin’s shoulders drop. He almost looks hurt. Much like a kicked puppy.
“Stranger?” He asks, his tone leaning into disbelief.
I move to pull his off coat off me, but he grabs my hand lightly.

“It has been some years. You were a child the last time I saw you, it makes sense you’d see me as a stranger.” He concedes.
I nod as I pull my hands away from his. I still shake his coat off my shoulders.

“I’ll sit in my own van. And you don’t have to fix my tank or whatever. I’ll manage.”
I hold his coat out towards him.
He doesn’t move to take it back.

“It won’t take five but five minutes Darcy.”
My brow furrows.

‘Darcy?’

My mind races as I try to recall that name. Had he mentioned it in passing before? Erwin heads to his own car swiftly, unaware of my mind racing to find connection in dots shrouded in a haze of my own foggy recollection.

Erwin walks back with duct tape in his hands and set to work taping up.

“You’ll need to get more coolant.” He says expertly.
I nod slowly.
‘The only thing I’ll need to do is get the hell away from you.’

“Got it.” I say calmly.
He pulls the hood of my engine down and takes his coat from my hands.

“Drive safe ‘Y/N.’”
Before he can walk away, and before I can stop myself, I ask.

“Who’s Darcy?”

Erwin’s face hardens and he sets he’s coat on my hood, leering over me.
“What are you talking about?” His voice is calm and low, like the quiet lightning before booming thunder, I know this isn't good. I look down at my shoes, as I will myself to speak. I clear my throat.

“You uh.” I’m faltering, words caught in my throat like a dry pill.
‘Breathe Elena. In and out. He’s not going to do anything in public.’

Or maybe he would. It’s not like there are any witnesses. Only the trees would see if I were to be whisked away, and they certainly wouldn’t be telling anyone. I swallow spit to moisten my throat; sweeten my words, soothe my soul that wants to bolt.

“You called me Darcy a second ago." I explain, looking up. His expression slightly relaxes but still oozing with tension.

"‘It won’t take but a moment Darcy’.” I imitate him with an exaggeratingly deep voice and an uptight tone, while waving my hands awkwardly in front of me. I drop my hands to my side, and look away, feeling embarrassed.

Erwin’s shoulders relax and he lets out a small laugh.

“Did I? Slip of the tongue.”
At least he doesn’t look like he’ll snap my neck anymore.
“One of my students you slightly favor.” He excuses. He picks his coat back up.

“Y/N, you should consider getting a newer vehicle. This one is older than you.”
I rub my arms.

“Eventually I will.” Erwin nods his head.

“Don’t forget what I said.”

What was it that he said? He had said so many things that I wanted to erase, or I had already successfully erased by never absorbing it at all.

I just nod.

“I won’t forget.” Anything to get him to leave.
He nods.

“Drive safe Y/N.”

He goes back into his vehicle, and I get into mine.

I start my engine.

There’s no steam coming from under the hood this time. Erwin could be useful, at least in this moment. I linger, waiting for him to drive away first. But after a few minutes it seems that he has no intentions to leave first.

Fine with me. I pull off, my eyes repeatedly shooting towards my driver's side mirror. Thankfully he doesn’t follow me. And I think to myself; Maybe he took the hint. Maybe he doesn’t want me this time. I pull a white pill out of my cup holder and blow it off without looking at it before flicking towards the back of my throat.

Maybe isn’t good enough. I need more assurance. I decide to take up the offer that was given to me the day before. A little ‘self-care’ after dealing with a demon cloaked in flesh and bones.

The entire ride from the sticks to back downtown took maybe an hour. An agonizing ride I spent checking my rear view mirror every 30 seconds. To Erwin’s credit, he and his black car never appeared behind me. Still, I didn’t relax my knuckles along my steering wheel until I saw several more cars around me as I got closer to downtown.

Finally, the familiar street came into view. Black brick, ‘Nail’s by Carly’ in neon lights. Between an old bookshop, and a metaphysical shop, it’s no surprise there aren’t more customers. It’s barely 3pm when I park up across the street from the book shop. Thankfully my hair is no longer damp.

As I reach for my seat-belt, I hear a laugh. A group of laughs, all recognizable. I glance up and see Mina, Thomas, and Nack are walking out of the crystal shop. I can scarcely make out what's being said, something about the creepy reading. I ignore the urge to run out the car and catch up. My first life friendships don't carry over to the next life, and I'd rather not try another go at a re-friendship attempt. Their voices fade as they continuing walking further and further away until I can no longer hear or see them.

Only then do I unbuckle my seat belt and shuffle to the back of my domicile. I pull a hoodie from my laundry bag; it would have to suffice for now. Even if it wasn’t the cleanest thing. I pop open the back door of the van and pull the hoodie over my head before climbing out and locking the door behind me. I blow hot air into my hands and pull the hood over my head. I check to my left, and then my right, preparing to cross the street when I hear.

“‘Y/N’," Another familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. It seems that people are out to aggravate me today. I smile as I turn around. ‘Be polite.’ I remind myself.

“Officer Nile.” I greet warmly. Friendly enough but no less annoying. He walks up to me, and I glance around for his patrol vehicle.

“Been staying out of trouble?”
I narrow my eyes and smile harder. What sort of question is that?

“When have I ever been trouble?”
Nile gives me a sympathetic look before sighing.

“People have been going missing around here ‘Y/N’, especially women.”

I had seen the posters around, faces of missing people stapled on telephone poles, trees, and outside of the gym I frequent. This isn’t new information. I rock on my heels. Already bored with the conversation.

“And what are you doing about the missing people?”

Nile taps the side of my van with the back of his palm gently.

“Why don’t you go back home?” Ignoring my pointed question. I scoff. It’s not the first time he’s said this. After crossing his path multiple times, he made his concerns known after demanding my ID under the guise of writing me up for loitering a month ago in front of a Ponzi’s Pizza. I think about my response for a moment. Trying to determine what will get him away from me quickly. Something dismissive or something appeasing. Before I can open my mouth, he speaks again.

“I have three daughters, the oldest is 19.” He starts casually.
I nod. “ Yea.. Yes, I think you mentioned that before.” I remind him, hoping he’ll skip his lecture. No such luck. He continues with his unsolicited speech to my irritation.

“I couldn’t call myself a parent if she ever had to reduce herself to living in her car.”
I scratch at my cheek. The more I see Nile, the less cop he seems. He’s starting to feel more like a broken record.

“How lucky for your daughter.”

Nile doesn’t seem to be happy with the compliment. I truly meant to sound sincere and genuine. I really did, but my false chipper tone probably sounded as if it was edging on the side of mockery.

“I could call your family for you if it’s too hard.”
A sweet offer, and I’d take it if it was my real family. My face hurts from fake smiling. I let my jaw go slack.

“Maybe I’m safer here than I would be at home. Did you ever think of that?”
Nile gives me a sympathetic look. It’s filled with pity and empathy. It’s disgusting.

“The women’s shelter, Frida house, has resources. They could help you. They can get you housing Y/N, and you can stop living in this clunker.”

I know all about Frida’s house. Hard pass. 

“I told you multiple times that it’s Elena.”
Nile pauses caught off guard by my sharp tone.
“Your ID says-“

“I promise you I don’t give a shit what that piece plastic says. "I snap. My voice is sharp and pointed. There needs to be a line drawn. " The name I choose for myself is valid, and I'm sick of correcting you."

Nile rubs his head.
“Fine. Elena then.” He walks past me and points to a sign.

“No parking after 10. I know life isn’t easy for you right now, so I’ll ignore the smell of pot lingering on you.” I roll my eyes in an exaggerated manner. The condescension is more than I can stand.

“Aren’t you just so kind and courteous?” My tone is flat, but the sarcasm isn’t missed. Nile doesn’t respond and he doesn’t need to. I was done with this conversation before it even started.

I make my way across the street, not sparing officer Nile a second glance. I wonder if his daughter smokes pot. Or if she finds him as annoying as I do. Or maybe she closes him off and that’s what he pesters me. Who could say? No answer would be satisfying.
Carly’s blinds are down in front of her windows, but not her front door.
I push open the unlocked glass door. I’m met with the usual chime.

“She’s closed!” A harsh male voice shouts at me.

A man is facing Carly at her desk. Tall, broad shoulders, long brown hair that’s in a braid that cascades down his back. Voice unfamiliar, I don’t move. Carly face is strained, her standing frame unmoving. I see a tremble in her clasped hands. This situation looks a bit… intense.

‘Intense, but not my problem.’ 

I turn to leave, my hand pressed against the door bar when I spot a black car with tinted windows drive and pull to a stop about three parking spaces from my van. I purse my lips and pause my movement.

‘Coincidence,’ I try to convince myself without success.

That’s not his car. He didn’t follow me here. He’s not trying to do anything to me. Gain any intel about me. No. Erwin is just downtown on the last street on a dead end road for no reason. Maybe this person who has the same car as Erwin is just here for a dusty used copy of The Metamorphosis from next door.

Then he steps out. It is him. Erwin Smith in all his glory. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it for a second when someone calls out his name. Nile is still lingering around, fucking around instead of solving any real crimes.

“Oi Bitch!” The male calls out to me drawing me out of my thoughts.
I turn my head, he’s partially facing me now. He has big brown eyes that read, ‘Don’t fuck with me. I’m crazy’. And a boneless, scanty beard that showed much a lot of his skin underneath.

“You slow? Get the fuck out.” His tone gruff and dripping with agitation.
I glance back outside, Erwin and Nile look real chummy. Erwin leaning against his car with his small smile gracing his face and Nile facing him moving his arms with emphasis as he goes on about something. I turn around. Best not rock that boat.

“Sorry, I have an appointment.” I say plainly, placing a hand on my hip. The corner of his mouth twitches irritation as gives me an astonished bewildered look fully facing me. He glances at Carly.

“Is she fucking serious?” Carly opens her mouth, stammers and broken words spill out.
“Uh-oh,..” Her hands go to her appointment book laying on her desk.

“ I thin- uh. Fuck. Hang on and let me ju-“ Her shaky hands drop the book accidentally on the desk making me flinch. He sneers in her direction.

“You think I really want to know if this bitch has an appointment?”
Carly looks on the verge of tears. This is all too much.
The man takes a few steps towards me, his hand pulling out of his pocket with a short silver open pocket knife in my direction. I take backward into the door, my left hand slightly pushing it open to release its chime.

“Did you hear me say she’s closed?” He says stopping a half a step in front of me. He baby soft looking skin, bright brown eyes, and the demeanor of an ass.
“I think you might have said that.”

“Then you’re on your way out. Come again real soon now ‘Princess’” The way he says princess sounds like a slur. Like slut, bitch, cunt, or whore. Except it somehow feels worse. Like I’m weak, delicate, or incapable. It doesn’t work for me.

I shift on my feet, putting more of my weight on my left side. I nod my head towards where Erwin and Nile are chatting across the street.

“You see that cop? Next to the blonde?”

He doesn’t answer me, but I notice him glance that way. Good enough.

“He really wants to fuck me.” False. Or at least I hope to god.
“Ha!” His smile is big and wide.
“Right. And I’m the senator. “
I narrow my eyes.
“ I think I would have noticed you on the ballet.” I mutter below my breath.

“Come again Princess?”

I clear my throat.

" I said, you don’t have to believe me. But he did watch me walk in here. Maybe he doesn’t wanna fuck me, but he’s damn sure all up in my business. And if I scream, that fucker is going to come running.”
I push the door open wider, the chilly air blowing in makes my teeth threaten to chatter.

" We can test that theory.” I offer. He stares down at me, meeting my eyes. I try not to glance at the knife in his hand.
“Benji.” Carly’s voice calls out.
The man, or Benji looks back.
“I’ll do what you want. Okay? So.. so just go home.”
Benji glances at her a moment longer before closing his pocket knife, shoving it into his pocket.
“See? That was all I wanted. “ He asks lightheartedly. Like he didn’t just pull a knife on me for not leaving quick enough.
“ But Cars just likes to do things the difficult way.” He muses to himself while glancing at me.
Just as quickly as his changing mood, he’s out the door. His shoulder bumps me, causing me to grunt as he leaves.

I rub my shoulder gently as I close the door. Erwin and Nile as still talking, unaware of the small chaos happening just across the street. I look back at Carly and take a few steps forward. She’s wiping at her eyes, shuffling papers on her desk, and doing a bunch of anxious fiddling.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She says without looking at me.
I’m facing her nail polish wall. I close my eyes and pick one at random. I clutch the nail polish bottle in my hand. ‘I bet it’s pink. I hope it’s not green. ‘
I open my eyes and look down. Baby blue.
Clicking my tongue in displeasure I turn to face Carly.

 "I want this color.” I hold it out to her.
She looks confused, her head tilts slightly as she looks at the nail polish bottle in my hands.
After a few seconds I cough to break her out of whatever nonsensical thoughts might be running through her head.

“You don’t think it’ll look good on me, right? “I ask rhetorically. Who doesn’t look good in baby blue, may in be a nail color or an eye color.
Carly meets my eye, with the same puzzled look on her face.

“You actually came here for me to do your nails?” I can see why she’d be confused.

“That’s right ‘Cars’”

The puzzled look drops off her face and is replaced with an offended one.

“Don’t call me that.” I unintentionally struck a nerve.

“My bad.” I concede without fight.

She takes the nail polish bottle from my hands and points to the station closest to the back wall, closest to a bathroom door. The door next to that leads to the back. I sit down ceremoniously. I tug my hoodie over my head and place it in my lap. Carly sits in front of me pulling out tools wordlessly.
Nail file. Buffer. Cuticle pusher. Cuticle cutter. Nail clippers. Blue and clear polish. She sets them on the table to her side and grabs my hand. She looks it over with a disapproving glance.
“It’s nice you keep it toasty in here.”
“You shouldn’t bite your nails.”
I hold in snarky comment.
“ I know.”
Carly sets my hand down and pulls out a small closed jar, a bottle, and a paint brush.
“I just want regular polish on my own nails. “
Carly pulls out a box with multiple smaller boxes with nail tips and sets it on the table.
As she reaches for my hands I pull them back towards me. Acrylic nails? When I need to be able to defend myself? That won’t do.
“I said tha-“
“ Do you really know that cop?” Her voice cuts my sentence off like a serrated blade.
I glance at her face. Her face reads nothing. Blank and

“No. He bugs me about loitering. That’s all.”
She nods slowly. If she believes me, I couldn’t say.

“My offer to frisk me still stands.”
Being frisked can be a pleasant experience.

“No, I think you’d enjoy it.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m not a pervert. And I don’t do fake nails”
“No woman ever admits to being a pervert. And you clearly don’t do real nails either.”
I glance at my fingers. Nails bitten down to the nubs. I couldn’t claw anyone’s eyes out, let alone get a satisfactory back scratch in. One of the smallest free pleasures that I can’t participate in. I ball my hands into fist.

“I have bigger problems than nail biting.”
Carly places her chin against the palm of her hand, Relaxing against the nail station.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. Everything about you screams trouble.”
I purse my lips. I scream trouble?

Carly continues.
“First you come in my shop demanding pills, then you threaten to call a cop into my shop where you know I keep said drugs.”
I scoff. I can see why she’d be so testy.
“ I wasn’t going to call him in here.”
Carly sits upright. Her hands reach out for mine expectantly. When I don’t give in immediately, she huffs and puts her hand down.
“ I don’t believe you.”
“That’s fine Carly.”

Carly raises a brow.
“Fine? It’s fine?”
I nod.
“You don’t have to trust me. You just need to take my money.”

“I don’t even know your name. How are you so… entitled?”

“I’m not entitled. I’m doing you a favor. You need the money, and I need what you have”

“You aren’t doing me a favor. You’re causing problems. You have a cop that follows you around and.. and you almost got stabbed. Do you know how much trouble that would have made for me?”

Carly’s problems aside, mine are more pressing. There is no time to be considerate.

“He wasn’t going to stab me.”

“He would have, and he would sleep like a baby after. You don’t know Benji.”
I let out a small scoff. I don’t even know who Benji is, it’s more important to keep track of all current players in this world and not any extras.

“And I don’t want to know Benji. “ I say calmly before continuing.
“He didn’t stab me. I didn’t bring a cop into your shop. You looked like you were in trouble so I got rid of him for you.”
Carly looks taken aback. Mouth agape.

“Wha- are you kidding me? You didn’t get rid of him. I got rid of him.”

“You were shaking like a leaf.” I point out.

“I had it handled. All you had to do was leave.”

“Yea well, you said you’d do my nails.”

“Yea, yea I did say that. And you didn’t seem interested. Now you’re so interested in getting your nails painted that you’d risk being pin cushion. Why?” Carly is nosey. " I won’t mind your business if you stay out of mine. “

“You’re already minding my business.”

“I honestly don’t think your business is that fucking interesting Carly.”

“ I’m interesting “ She says defensively. 

I nod appraisingly. Carly certainly could be interesting. Just not enough for me to care.
Carly shakes her head astonished. She motions repeatedly to her chest.
“I’m interesting. I have a degree in chemistry, okay? I own this shop and I just turned 22. How can you say I’m not interesting?” I sigh.

“So, you want me to be in your business then?”

“No, I want you to not act like a frigid bitch.” She instantly covers her mouth. A look of regret on her face.
“Sorry, I’m just a little on edge. That doesn’t give me the right to insult you”

“It’s ok. I am a frigid bitch.” Carly rubs her face.
“Acrylics will help you stop biting. I know they can be a little daunting if you’re not used to them. But it’s what I recommend. “
I place my palms flat on the table.
“I can’t fight with fake nails.”
“Fight? You fight people? You’re tiny. “
Body shaming comes in all types. In one place I get criticism for being heavy, while here I’m built like a easy target. ‘Do you even eat? You need more calories, blah blah blah.’

“No, I don’t but if I like to be prepared.”
Carly takes my left hand in hers.

 "I can make them short for you. No one will ever guess you’re secretly running a fight club”
I end up relenting. As Carly clips the long nail down to a quarter of an inch past my finger tips she decides to make small talk.

“ I never did get your name?”

“You know all your clients' names?”

“I do.” She says with a lax conviction.

“How mindful of you.”
She hums in response as she continues her work.

“It’s Elena.”

“That’s pretty. What does Elena do?”

“Elena minds her business.”

“School?”

“I thought we agreed to stay out of each other’s business.”

“We never agreed to that.”

“It’s not too late to.”
Carly poorly holds in a chortled sound.

“Don’t be like that. I’m trying to be friendly.”

“You doing my nails for free is friendly enough.”

“Free?”

“Yeah, free. Like you offered.”

“I didn’t think you’d take me up on it.”

I don’t say anything as she puts my hands under the purple UV light. Carly is silent too as she pulls out my right out and adds a top coat. She repeats this wordlessly with my left hand. After Putting them back under the light, she stands and stretches her arms over her head. Then side to side.

“you seem relaxed.” I comment. Carly sits back down at the table and moves the UV light away.
“Stress will kill you faster than anything out here.” She picks up a bottle of oil and rubs in on my hands. Taking extra care to fully massage it around my fingers.

“Not faster than a bullet.”
Carly smiles lightly.
“That’s not likely Elena.”
When she lets my hand, I reach into my pocket and put a $5 in the jar next to her on the table.
“Thanks.”
I put my hoodie back on and straighten myself out.
“It’s really cold out for a hoodie. “
More small talk. Fine with me.

“You’re not wrong. I’m going to good will after this to get a coat.”
Carly clicks her tongue and crosses her arms.
“ I’m pretty sure they close by 3.”
I glance at the clock on the wall.
4: 27.
I let out an exasperated sound.

“Then I guess I’ll get a coat tomorrow then. No big thing.” I stand up, preparing to leave.

“Wait.”
What now?
“I don’t need to reup yet. “

Carly gives me an annoyed look.

“That’s not what was on my mind. Just stay right there for a second. “
Carly goes into her back room. Seconds turn to minutes and I’m tempted to just leave right then. The sounds of things shuffling, plastic being ripped open, makes me stay. If only to satiate my curiosity. She comes out with a dark red parka with brown fur over the trim of its hood.

“I have so much stuff I need to take to Goodwill and I keep putting it off. So you can just take it. “
She holds it out to me, and I stare down at it wordlessly.
Carly looks at me expectantly, her eyes read, ‘take it.’
“How much do you want for it?”
Carly rolls her eyes.

“The same thing Goodwill would have given me for it. “
I take it from her hands. I’m won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever that means.
“Thanks. You saved me a trip.”
I put in on over my hoodie, it’s a good fit. Slightly baggy, reaching the middle of my thighs. I pull the up the zipper. There’s a slight smell, like musk wrapped in citrusy flowers and vanilla.
Carly nods at me.

“It’s a good fit. I hate when people get me red things, so I only wore it once.”
I raise a brow.

“Because your hair is red?”
Carly gives me a small, strained smile.

“No, but that’s what I should start telling people.”
I nod. Not willing to push or intrude. I glance at my short, manicured nails and scratch at my head.

“Amazing.” I mutter under my breath.

Carly nods.
“I told you so.”

I lower my hands and put them in my pockets.
“I’ll get out of your hair.” I say walking towards the door. I stop just short of it, glancing up and down the street from the inside of her shop.
Erwin’s car is gone. Thank God.

“Do me a favor before you go.”

I glance at Carly. What kind of favor could she possibly want.
“Next time, if someone tells you to leave, just leave. Yea?” I nod. It's not like I wanted to interrupt. 

“Sure thing, it won’t happen again.” I promise before pushing open the chime ringing door.
The wind pushes against me, stinging my face. I pull the hood over my head before I cross the street to get to my van. As I walk around to the driver's side, I spot something lodged into between the windshield wipers.

A folded piece of paper. I’m tempted to toss it without reading it. But I take off with my chilled hands and climb inside my van. Once settled in my seat, I open the letter. Another card, white with gold lettering falls out onto my lap. I immediately take it and toss it on my dashboard. The letter reads as follows.

Y/N,
I happened to come across your van. I’m writing this to remind you to get your tank fixed. You seemed a bit dazed, and I’m concerned you won’t remember. There's a mechanic shop on 54th street. Called Franz Auto. They won’t charge you much, if you present my card and say I sent you. Feel free to reach out if you need anything. And remember your coat, you'll get sick if you keep forgetting it. I look forward to hearing back from your father. It was good seeing you, please take care of yourself.

Best Regards,
Erwin Smith.

I scoff.
“You happened upon my van? Are you fucking kidding me?”
I believe that as much as I believe I’d be safer in the women’s shelter. I ball up his letter and toss it on the passenger side floor. I rest my head on the steering wheel before I will myself to start the engine and find a place to park with no street sign limitations.

Chapter Text

Standing on the tips of my toes on the locker bench, I peek out the gym bathroom’s narrow window. My van is parked exactly where I left it in the parking lot, right in the open. At dawn, it was mercifully alone, but now its solitude has been interrupted by the sleek Bentley Continental parked beside it. My stomach knots. I don’t even need to squint to confirm it—none other than Erwin Smith.

I lower myself off the tips of my feet, my pulse quickening. I press my back against the cold tile wall, heart pounding as if it’s trying to escape. Why now? Why here? It’s the third time around, and no matter what I do, no matter where I hide, he always finds a way back. I guess it could be worse. He could remember everything.

The gym, usually a sanctuary, feels more like a cage today. The hum of treadmills and clanking weights beyond the locker room door do nothing to soothe the rising panic. The scent of chlorine and detergent mingles in the stale air, but it does little to mask the faint, nauseating taste of fear sitting heavy in my throat.

I drop down onto the bench, feeling a wave of dizziness settle over me. My head swims, the world tilting and tilting until I close my eyes. The oxy from this morning isn’t helping; everything feels half a beat too slow. My pulse quickens, but the thudding seems almost muted, like it’s pressing through layers of fog. I press my back to the cold tile wall, trying to steady myself; trying to steady my breathing. Raising my hand instinctively to my mouth, I curse under my breath when my acrylic nails stop me from biting—a nervous habit I can’t indulge. Instead, I rake my hands through my damp hair, my thoughts racing. It’s been four days since I ran into him on that isolated road, and now he’s everywhere. He’s been here twice, that I’ve seen. The diner I get my free tomato soup from. And even outside of Carly’s. Every move I make, every step I take away, seems to bring him closer.

With a sigh, I pull out my worn-out copy of White Nights from my bag. The edges are frayed, the back cover missing entirely. It's my favorite book—a story of fleeting connection and hope within loneliness. There’s a quote that comes to mind as I stare down at the battered pages: "I am living here like a spider in its web, and I wait—only wait, for I know that what has already happened once will happen again." A bitter smile tugs at my lips. The words resonate more than ever, like a whisper from some other universe reminding me that no matter what I do, the same moments will repeat

The locker room door creaks open, and my whole body stiffens. My head snaps toward the sound, and for a split second, the terror grips me—a flash of blonde hair, his silhouette, his voice calling me ‘Princess.’ But no. It’s just an attendant, clipboard in hand. I small laugh escapes me. ‘I’m being so paranoid. That’s probably not even his car'. I sag into the bench, my relief sharp and fleeting.

The attendant offers a polite smile as she walks past, her clipboard tapping against her hip. “Good morning, miss,” she says lightly, her tone too chipper for the simmering panic inside me. Her voice sounds slightly too loud, or maybe it’s just the oxy again, heightening everything. She begins her rounds, checking lockers and stalls, her pen scratching against paper. The sound of her every movement seems to resonate off the walls. I try to focus on her mundane actions—counting her steps, watching the quick flicks of her wrist—but it does nothing to calm the growing storm forming inside me.

“Are you alright?” Her question cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I blink at her, startled. Her voice is soft, laced with concern, but it might as well be a spotlight shining on me. I must look like a nervous wreck.

“I’m good,” I lie. My mouth feels thick, and I force a smile, hoping she won’t notice anything weird. My heart’s still racing, the nausea building as she hovers a moment longer... My hands clench in my lap, knuckles white against my thighs. The attendant hesitates, her brown eyes searching mine as if she doesn’t believe me. It’s not like she’d take me seriously if I said, ‘Hey, you aren’t real. This is just a fanfiction of the world’s most popular anime, and you aren’t even a real character.’ I pout. That wouldn’t go well at all.

“It’s just that…” She trails off, rubbing the back of her neck. My stomach twists. What now?

She finally speaks again, gesturing vaguely with her clipboard. “You’ve been in here since 5, and it’s almost 9, so…”

I exhale sharply, interrupting her. “5:47,” I correct automatically. “That’s when the sun rose.” The over-scrupulous response tumbles out before I can stop it, more a reflex than anything else. It sounds like a pathetic excuse even to my own ears.

She doesn’t seem to care, shrugging as she shifts her weight. “Fine. Let’s say 6. That’s still three hours. And, well… you’re not exactly working out.”

The dripping faucet to my left is suddenly deafening. Each drop feels like it’s hitting my skin directly, irritating and relentless. I scratch at my dry arm absentmindedly, regretting that I left my lotion in the van.

“Did someone complain?” I ask flatly. It’s a first. But then again, I’m usually not here longer than 40 minutes so it’s not exactly a normal day.

“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “But you’re usually gone by now. And the new owner wants us to make sure people aren’t, uh, just hanging around.”

My fingers freeze mid-scratch. “New owner?”

The words come out sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it. A cold sweat breaks over me as the implications ripple through my mind. No. It couldn’t be.

“Yeah,” she says, frowning slightly, as if trying to recall a detail she’s misplaced. “He actually stopped by this morning. Told us to tighten things up. I mean, I don’t really care…”

Her voice fades into the background as I rise to my feet, my movements jerky and mechanical. Slipping on the red coat automatically, I move toward the sink, rinsing my hands in cold water. It takes an eternity to get lukewarm. No one in their right mind would buy this place. The faucet squeaks as I twist it off, the echo bouncing off the tile walls.

“Who’s the new owner?” I ask, my tone low, careful. My heart thunders in my chest, but I force my voice to remain steady.

The attendant hesitates, her brow furrowing. “Um… I think he said his name was… Alric? Alric Smith?”
It feels like something came and sucked the air from out the room; like an invisible hand gripped around my throat. My hands clutch the edge of the sink, my knuckles blanching. She says it with such misplaced confidence, such casual indifference, but I know better.

“Alric Smith,” she repeats, almost to herself, as if testing the name’s weight. “Nice guy gave us all raises. I hope he brings everything up to code.”

I turn slowly to face her, drying my hands with the paper towels. The dispenser clanks loudly, the sound echoing through the silence that’s fallen between us.

“It’s not Alric. It’s Erwin,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “It’s Erwin Smith.” I grab my backpack with my dirty clothes and toiletries from the bench and swing it over my shoulder.

The attendant blinks, surprised by strange conviction, but before she can respond, I move past her, my feet carrying me out of the locker room and into the main gym floor. Erwin seems intent on forcing an interaction with me. Even going as far as to buy a small gym that doesn’t even have braille labels on the doors. I hope he gets fucking sued.

I walk out, glancing around me. It’s not too busy today, maybe 4 people are working out. I see another gym attendant behind the front desk, slightly adjacent from the front door. To my surprise, there no Erwin in sight. Just sweaty people, doing their best to either be healthy or look healthy. Best not press my luck.

I step out of the front door, the cold air hitting me like a slap. It’s a chill 56 degrees, but with the breeze, it feels much colder, like the air is slicing through me. I pull my coat tighter around my body, the thick fabric barely offering any warmth against the bite of the wind against my face. My damp hair clings to the back of my neck, cold and uncomfortable, a stark contrast to the chill seeping through my skin.

I can feel the moisture from my hair running down my spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind me. Every breath feels thick in my chest, the cold air stinging as it rushes in.

My fingers tremble slightly as I zip up my coat, the coldness spreading out from my hands like little shocks of discomfort. The streets are quieter now, but my senses are amplified. Every footstep echoes too loudly in my head, every gust of wind seems to blow harder, more insistent.

Then I hear it. That voice—his voice. “Y/N?”

I stop dead in my tracks, a sharp intake of breath freezing in my chest. He’s sitting at an outdoor table, off to the side of the entrance. “Mr. Smith.” I greet with the warmth equal to that outside. He smiles kindly, standing up. “I didn’t know you came to this gym.” He so full of shit. I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t why you’d know something like that." Erwin nods his head. “The previous owner was eager to get rid of it. The price was so low, I couldn't say no.” I force a surprised look on my face. “Really? I didn't think professors made a lot of money.”

His eyes widen before he lets out a light laugh. “I’m surprised you knew I taught.” I’m sure he mentioned in this lifetime. I shrug my shoulders again. “I do well enough. Besides, it’s good to invest your funds, if you want your money to grow.” He lectures. With him, there’s always a lesson to be learned. Ever the instructing teacher. My focus is less on his words and more on forcing the bile to not rise out my throat.
I nod my head. Easily agreeing as he moves toward me. My head tilts slightly up to look at his face. He gives me a reassuring smile that makes my skin crawl.

“I’m sure,” I say, my voice flat. “Well, I’m glad your investments are doing well.” My eyes dart toward my car. The cold air biting at my cheeks.
“I’m actually glad I ran into you.” I wish he would stop acting like this was a coincidence. I feel like I’m losing my mind, all this damn pretense. “Did you get your tank fixed?”
I nod. “Yea, I got it fixed.” That’s what I forgot to do. Erwin mouth twitches. “You went to Franz’s?” So nosey. “I went to a random place. I don't remember the name.”
Erwin nods. "Fair enough.”

His gaze soft but too intense. “I don’t want to seem too forward, but it’s been a while since I saw you last. How are you holding up?”

I choke on a laugh, the words stinging as they leave my lips. “You saw me last just a few days ago.” I can’t help the bitterness in my tone. “Guess your memory is starting to fail you, huh?”

Erwin’s smile falters for the briefest moment, but it’s quickly replaced by that same strange mixture of concern and something darker. “It felt too long.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, resisting the urge to step back. I force a smile, as cold and distant as I can manage. “Guess I’ll be seeing you.”

“Will you be going home for thanksgiving?” He questions comes out of left field. No doubt wanting to invite me to his.
“Probably.” I say, without commitment. “Probably?” He asks, seeming far too invested. I shrug. “I haven’t decided yet. So many options, I’m real popular these days.” Not really, my options include going to a food kitchen, which isn’t likely, to getting high as humanly possible and eating 3 cheeseburgers from Dicks while watching YouTube in the back of my van. A lovely escape from this bullshit that my life has become.

Erwin nods, my answer is acceptable. Maybe it’s good he thinks I’m popular, booked and busy. “If you happen to be in town, we’re having an early dinner.”
But he keeps going, offering me an invitation to his “early dinner.” The tension in my stomach snaps, and I choke on a laugh. “We’re? Oh with your wife?" I know he isn’t married, and he just chuckles, shrugging off the jab with his usual calmness. “No. I live with a friend.”

I can barely stand it, this polite mask he’s wearing, and the thought of his friend—Levi—makes me sicker. I glance toward my van, wanting to escape this entire moment. The cold air stings my cheeks, but I can’t shake the nausea tightening in my gut..”
I nod. “That’s cool. I probably won’t be able to make it through.”

“We’re having pumpkin pie.” He says it with a sense of pride. “ Levi found the recipe in-“

I don’t hear the rest. My body betrays me before I can stop it. The nausea that’s been building explodes in a single, violent wave. I lurch forward, unable to hold it back any longer, and vomit splashes onto his polished black shoes. Mostly liquid, pale with yellow chunks. My banana breakfast, now partially digested, lays before me. The acidic taste burns my throat, and my vision swims as I struggle to stay upright.

 I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, and in the rush, my worn copy of White Nights tumbles out of my bag and hits the pavement.

Erwin takes a step back, then bends down to pick up the book, his eyes widening a bit when he sees it. He turns it over in his hands, a small smile forming. “White Nights?” He looks almost impressed, like he's discovered a secret about me. “This is on my syllabus. You like Dostoevsky?”

A defensive surge runs through me as I snatch the book back from his hands, my grip tightening around it. “He's a preachy bastard who spends too much time whining instead of getting to the point,” I snap, tucking it hastily into my bag. 

Erwin takes a step back. No doubt disgusted by what I just did or my 'opinion'. The sound of ruffling, and then an outstretched hand holding out a small stack of napkins towards me.
“Take this.” I all but snatch them. I wipe my entire mouth and stand upright. I can’t even look at him. “Sorry about your shoes.”

“It’s not like you did it on purpose I'm more worried about you,” Erwin’s reasons empathetically. I ball up the napkins in my hand and push it deep into my coat pocket for later disposal. I wish it was on purpose. I wish I was that diabolical that I could puke on demand on my enemies instead of this humiliating bullshit.

“You should get home and rest,” he continues. “I’m not sick.” I deny. There’s a brief silence before he speaks again. “You’re not sick.” He repeats. “No, I’m not. I just don’t like thinking about food before noon.” I excuse.
“Look, I got to go. See you around.”

I take a step back, hoping to leave this whole weird interaction behind, but Erwin doesn’t move. His gaze settles on me, cool and steady, like he’s studying something he can’t quite understand.

“Y/N,” he says carefully, his voice calm but a little too intent. “You look tired. Are you sure you’re alright?”

The words hit like a needle pricking right through me. Tired. Of course, he would say that, standing there looking perfectly put together, with that same measured look he always gives me. How could he seem to care when he’s the reason I’m like this in the first place?

“Tired?” I scoff, the irritation bubbling over. “Maybe you're the one who's tired, after that big, Brilliant purchase.” I force a smile, no doubt bitter. He doesn’t respond, only watching me more closely, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s trying to see past whatever defenses I’ve thrown up. The more he stares, the more I feel like I’m suffocating under that silent, unyielding concern.

“Pretty rude, honestly,” I mutter, unable to stop myself. “Telling people how they look, especially when—” I cut myself off, swallowing down the lump in my throat. My vision feels hazy, like I’m seeing everything through a thin, irritating fog.

His face remains as composed as ever, though I notice the faint crease between his brows deepen. “Y/N,” he says again, his voice softer but still intense. “If you need anythi—” I roll my eyes, forcing another smile that I know looks as brittle as I feel. “I don’t need any help from you, thanks,” I say, keeping my tone light. “I’m good. Great even.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze stays fixed on me, a quiet worry lurking behind his eyes that I can’t stand to look at any longer.

I turn on my heel, heading toward my van as quickly as I can without looking back. I keep my head high, trying to ignore the way the ground feels a little unsteady beneath me, the way the cold air bites at my skin and makes me shiver.

I finally reach the van and climb inside, letting the door slam shut behind me. My hands grip the wheel tightly, my knuckles whitening as I take a few shaky breaths, trying to steady myself.

“‘Tired.’” The word feels like it’s lingering in the air around me, scratching at something raw inside. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the steering wheel, and feel a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I finally let out a sigh, but it doesn’t do much to shake the tension buzzing inside me. I reach under the passenger seat and pull out the little box. Opening it, I peer inside at the stash—and find only a single pill staring back at me. I pause, my unsteady fingers brushing over it, barely remembering how I got through so many, so quickly. It’s all just blurred together somehow, one day slipping into the next. 

I take the pill, the relief already beginning to uncoil in my chest as I close the box and stash it away. Then I start the van, my mind already drifting to Carly’s salon.

I slide three hundred-dollar bills onto Carly's counter. She barely glances at them before scooping them up, slipping them smoothly into the cash register. Without missing a beat, she grabs a green gift bag from beneath her desk and hands it over, keeping her voice all business. “Here’s your cuticle oil.”

“Thanks,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. Her elderly client, a woman with silver-streaked hair and pink polish curing under a blue light, bobs her head faintly to the radio's squeaky-clean pop tune, looking oblivious. The whole “cuticle oil” charade is for her benefit, but I get the feeling it’s pointless. Still, I go through the motions.

“Love this stuff,” I say, peeking into the bag. Inside, nestled between a half-ounce of weed and ten oxys, are a few Jolly Ranchers. “What’s with the candy?”

Carly shrugs, folding her arms. “Thought it might sweeten the deal.”

“Not complaining,” I murmur, closing the bag. Another transaction down, clean and simple. It should feel like a small win, but these days, nothing really hits the same. I turn to leave.

But then Carly’s voice stops me. “So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

The question hits a nerve, something about it prying deeper than the usual casual ask. My smile tightens, but I play along. “Probably gonna go to my parents’ place. You know, family time.” I wave it off, hoping she’ll drop it. We both know I’ll likely be in the back of my van, lost in my own haze, maybe with a few burgers and a wine cooler for “celebration.”

Carly raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Liar.”

I bristle. “Even if I was lying—which I’m not admitting to—it's rude to call me out.”

She tilts her head, unimpressed by my defense. “And lying to my face isn’t?”

I give her a half-hearted shrug, pretending I don’t care. She can believe what she wants. But Carly just sighs, and I know she’s not letting this go.

“Look, I’ve got this thing,” she says, brushing a thumb against her forehead like she’s got a headache just thinking about it. “A Thanksgiving dinner on my dad’s yacht. It’s supposed to be a family thing, but he’s decided to invite half his work contacts. Investors, potential clients—the whole fake-smile brigade.”

I scoff. “Sounds like a blast. Pass.”

Carly’s stare sharpens, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Come on. I need a buffer. It’s hours of forced smiles and cocktail chatter, and I can’t bring my boyfriend because my dad hates him.”
I shake my head, pulling the bag closer to my chest. “Take literally anyone else.”

She crosses her arms, unamused. “There is no one else. I don’t have any other friends, Elena. And I’m pretty sure you don’t either. I don’t have anyone else who’ll sit through hours of fake smiles and small talk.” I'm not sure why she thinks we're friends, this is what happens when you accept charity. 

Her words hit, but I shrug them off. “Then go alone,” I mutter, feeling the urge to bolt. The idea of being stuck on a yacht full of Carly’s family and whoever her dad drags along is enough to make me want to hide out somewhere, anywhere else.
“I don’t even have anything to wear to something like that," I attempt to reason.

Carly rolls her eyes. “I have a whole closet full of stuff I don’t wear anymore. You can borrow something. Problem solved.”

“You’re asking the wrong person. I’m not ‘family yacht event’ material.”

“What the hell is 'Family Yacht Event' Material? It's free food on a boat.” Her voice tightens with an edge of exasperation. “Look, either you come with me…or you can find someone else to sell you ‘cuticle oil’.”

I go silent, fingers tightening around the bag. She’s watching me closely, challenging me to say no. I stare down at the green bag in my hand, weighing my options. " Bullshit," I i say. Carly doesn't break her eye contact. " I swear, the last thing I'm doing is bull-shiting you." Her conviction strong I see evidence that she's joking. Finally, I mutter, “Fine. Fine, you win with your blackmail”

Carly smirks, and with the quickness of the serpent she is, reaches into my coat pocket and pulls out my phone. "Hey-" "I promise you'll have fun," Carly cuts me off as she types something into my phone. Moments later her own phone rings in her apron pocket. "I'll text you my address, and we can get you all fixed up.' she says with overwhelming enthusiasm. She hands me back my phone and I snatch it. " Anyone ever tell you your pushy as hell?" Carly shrugs. "It's not my fault your easy to push."

Carly’s text came in the early morning. I groaned as I rubbed my eyes, the light from my phone feeling more like an intruder than a necessity. The screen lit up with the time—8:20 a.m. Too late for my usual 6 a.m. alarm, which I shut off with a resigned flick of my thumb. Shower time would have to wait. Since my safe shower spot no longer held that same sentiment. 

The words from the unsaved number read:
388 Worcester Street. Suite 70.

I tossed the phone aside, my bladder throbbing in protest as I groaned again. Another notification pinged, cutting through my rising irritation like a gnat buzzing in my ear. First things first. Shuffling through wrappers and discarded clothing on the passenger seat, I grabbed what I needed—a Styrofoam cup.

Nature waits for no one. I slipped off my pants, crouched awkwardly, and let out a sigh as the urine hit the cup. This wasn’t a big deal. Survival stripped everything to its essentials. We really are just animals when you take away the pretense.

Once I was finished, I carefully set the cup down and grabbed a napkin from the stash I kept near my seat. After cleaning myself up, I opened the back door and poured the contents onto the asphalt outside. Watching the stream disappear into the gutter, I made a mental note: I really should clean this van. Not now, but eventually. The wrappers, the napkins, the cups—it was all starting to pile up. It wasn’t living; it was existing.

I shut the door and grabbed my phone again. The second notification stared back at me:
“Around 3ish? I’ll drive us to the marina at 5.”

I sighed, the knot in my stomach tightening. Did I really need to go? Did I really need the pills? The weed? No. But I wanted them. And want was enough, wasn’t it?

I typed back:  “What time should I get there?”

Carly’s reply came before I could put the phone down.  “3ish.”

Her casual tone made my teeth grind. This wasn’t casual for me. I didn’t want to smile politely at strangers or sit on a yacht pretending to care about anything beyond the haze the pills gave me. That wasn’t a need either. It was a want. A want for numbness. A want for silence. A want to slip through the cracks like wallpaper—unnoticed, unimportant.

But the knot in my stomach wasn’t just anger. Part of me didn’t mind the idea of doing something outside the suffocating context of this world’s story. The thought of being around people who didn’t know what I’d done. Who didn’t know what  I  knew.

And yet, Carly’s terms felt the same as every other ultimatum I’d faced: Do this or lose that. Except this time, it wasn’t my freedom or my survival on the line. It was just a crutch. A crutch I didn’t need—but wanted.

I climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. My van sputtered and coughed its way to life, its usual clanging melody greeting me like an old friend. I needed a shower before I faced whatever this was going to be. My usual gym wouldn’t cut it today. I’d heard of a nicer one in town, the kind of place with towels that didn’t smell like mildew. I could spring for the membership. Just for the day.

One problem at a time.

I stood outside the luxury apartment building, staring at the glossy glass facade and the uniformed doorman stationed at the front. The man was older, with a no-nonsense expression that gave me pause. I sighed and stepped forward. “Good morning,” he greeted, his tone neutral but firm. “Good morning,” I replied, nodding stiffly. “I’m sorry you have to work today.” He grunted, unimpressed. “I don’t celebrate. And it’s all day overtime.” I nodded, a little impressed by his pragmatism.

“Cool. So, I’m here for Carly?” His brow lifted, skeptical. “Carly who?” I opened my mouth, but Carly’s last name escaped me. I hesitated. “Uh… Stratton?” “Are you asking or telling me?” His tone was flat, the beginnings of annoyance visible in his posture. I sighed, already regretting this entire trip. “You know what? Never mind.”

Maybe this was my way out. I could text Carly that the doorman wouldn’t let me in, and she’d have to manage without me. Problem solved. Back to my van. Back to pretending none of this existed. “Elena, right?” A smooth male voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to see a man leaning casually in the doorway, the glass door cracked open behind him. Shaggy brown hair, a goatee, sweatpants, and a stained tank top—he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Shoeless, wearing only socks. Ick.

“Yeah,” I muttered reluctantly. He looked at the doorman and gave him a nod.

“She’s good, man.” The doorman stepped aside, already disinterested. Almost free. So close, yet not close enough. The man held the door open wider. “Come on,” he said, “it’s cold as hell out here.” I hesitated but followed him inside.

He led the way to the elevator with a sluggish gait, his socks scuffing the pristine floors. He pressed the button for the seventh floor. Silent, uninterested in small talk, he scratched at his crotch. Ick. As the elevator numbers ticked down, I debated whether I should say something. He’d gone through the trouble of fetching me, even if he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. I cleared my throat. “Are you Carly’s boyfriend?” “Huh?” he asked, barely glancing my way.

“I asked if you were Carly’s boyfriend,” I repeated, still not looking at him. “Yeah. Kemper.” His tone was as flat as the carpeted elevator floor. Kemper? I thought, rolling my eyes internally. What kind of name was that? The elevator dinged, opening briefly to let a man in a suit step on. He glanced at Kemper with undisguised disdain before stepping off again two floors later. Before the doors closed, he shot me the same look. What’d I do?

“Don’t take it personally,” Kemper muttered, as if sensing my confusion. “I’m not exactly the most popular resident, but they can’t get rid of me.” I glanced at him, wondering if it was his actions or his appearance that made him a pariah. Finally, the elevator reached the seventh floor. The doors opened to reveal a hallway covered in deep blue floral wallpaper, the flowers’ centers a mix of pink, white, and yellow. The thick lavender carpet muffled our steps as we walked. The place felt more like an expensive hotel than an apartment building.

Kemper stopped at a door and waved his wristband—something I hadn’t noticed before—over the lock. It looked like a Fitbit, only sleeker and metallic. The door clicked open. “Come on,” he said, walking inside and leaving the door open behind him. I followed, stepping into the expansive apartment. The open-concept space stretched from the living room to the dining area and kitchen. A massive TV—easily over 150 inches—dominated one wall. The couch, a dark gray pit-like monstrosity, seemed to be built into the floor.

Without a word, Kemper flopped onto it, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. Football flickered to life on the screen. I glanced around, taking in the walls painted in a muted gray-purple and covered in pop art. The space was impressive but impersonal, the kind of place designed to flaunt wealth. Kemper hadn’t even bothered shutting the door, nor did he seem to care that I was there. “Where’s Carly?” I asked, standing awkwardly near the entrance. No answer. I asked again, louder this time. Still nothing.

'What the fuck is his deal?' I thought, irritation building. Before I could press further, the door across the hall opened. Carly stepped out, her makeup done and a soft peach robe draped over her figure. She hurried into the apartment and wrapped me in a hug. “Hey!” she said brightly. I stiffened, not returning the gesture. “Hey,” I replied flatly. Resentment bubbled under the surface. She had blackmailed me into coming here, and I was barely tolerating her presence at this point.

She grabbed my hand and tugged me next door, shutting the door to Kemper’s apartment behind us. Her wristband, gold and slimmer than Kemper’s, clicked the lock open on what I assumed was her apartment. As we stepped inside, I was hit by an overwhelming sense of clutter. Teal and white striped walls surrounded racks of clothes, and a massive window overlooked the city and a park below. Clothes were strewn everywhere—on the floor, across chairs, spilling out of bins.

“I thought this was your apartment, not a store,” I muttered. Carly laughed, scooping up a discarded black skirt from the floor. “This is more like my closet. Sometimes I come here to listen to music. It’s not as overwhelming as the main apartment.” I stepped forward and nearly tripped over a pile of fabric on the floor. Carly scooped it up with an exasperated sigh. “I keep meaning to drop stuff off at Goodwill, but it’s impossible to go through it all.” I wandered over to a rack and fingered the clothes, noticing identical items in different sizes. Six identical black dresses hung in a row.

“The only thing different about these is the size,” I muttered. Carly joined me, grabbing one of the dresses in a size nine and holding it up to herself. “My weight fluctuates a lot. I never leave these ranges, so if I like something, I buy it in every size from two to twelve. That way, I’ll always have it in whatever size I need.” I nodded, mildly impressed.

“That’s genius,” I admitted, more as a statement than a compliment. “Thanks,” she said with a smile. I thought about the clothes back at home. My real home. They were stuffed into plastic bins, half of them likely no longer fitting me, but I kept them anyway. I’d loved some of those pieces—tops and dresses I’d worn during good times. The kind of good times I’d rather forget, but still, it was hard to get rid of them. Sometimes the style was so perfect that replacing it felt impossible, and sometimes I hoped I’d fit into them again, once things changed. It seemed foolish, but there was a strange comfort in keeping them, even if they no longer fit my body or my life. As I browsed through a line of velvet plum skirts, a question came to mind. “Wait, so both of these are your apartments?” She nodded casually. “Yeah. And the rest of the floor.” 

Some people are truly wasteful. 

“Here, this one,” Carly said, holding out an emerald-green dress towards me.

I stared at the deep green fabric in her hands, velvet shimmering faintly under the harsh apartment light. It was stunning—too stunning for someone like me. My fingers brushed over the luxurious material, and it felt heavier than it looked. Maybe because it came with all the expectations Carly seemed so eager for me to meet. A quick glance at the tag confirmed my worst fear: size 4. Great, even the dress was judging me.

“Just try it on!” Carly’s enthusiasm bounced off the walls.

I frowned, the discomfort already settling in my chest. “I don’t know, Carly… it’s a bit much.”

She rolled her eyes, brushing off my reluctance with a dramatic wave. “No, it’s perfect. Just trust me.”

Trust her? That was a laugh. But I sighed and gave in anyway. Arguing with Carly was like trying to argue with gravity. “Fine. But if I look stupid, I’m picking the next outfit.”

“Deal!” she chirped, practically bouncing on her toes.

The mirror reflected someone I didn’t recognize. The dress clung to me in places I would have preferred it didn’t, showing off curves I spent most days hiding under layers. At least it went past my knees—small mercies. Still, tugging at the hem didn’t make me feel any less like an imposter.

This isn’t me. The thought settled in like an unwelcome guest.

Behind me, Carly’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “Oh my god, you look incredible! See? I told you it would be perfect.”

I forced a smile, even though my reflection screamed otherwise. “Yeah… that’s one way to put it.”

Her excitement softened, and she rested a hand on my shoulder. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend your day. But you look really good—just try to be cool, okay?”

“Cool.” I nodded, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit!” She beamed, then clapped her hands together. “Come on, I’ll do your makeup before we go.”

Carly moved with practiced efficiency, brushing and dabbing my face with colors I didn’t know existed. It was like she had some secret map to a version of me I’d never seen before. When she finally stepped back, I barely recognized the woman staring back from the mirror.

“Perfect,” she declared, handing me a small gold clutch. “Use this instead.”

I started transferring my things—keys, wallet, the essentials. When my fingers closed around the small baggie, Carly’s eyes narrowed.

“Hey, you can’t bring pot with you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because you can’t. There’s nowhere to smoke it, and people will give you dirty looks.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, I won’t bring it. And just so you know, I don’t care what people think.”

“It’s not about caring,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “When it’s you against them, you can’t give anyone ammunition.”

I tucked the baggie back into my tote, her words settling uncomfortably in my chest. She nodded toward the EpiPen I dropped into the clutch.

“Shellfish?” she asked.

“No.” I didn’t elaborate, because honestly, I wasn’t even sure why I carried it. Seemed better to have it than not.

“Good,” Carly said, wrinkling her nose. “Daddy said there would be lobster, and I’d hate to stab you in the thigh.”

I followed her into her main apartment, where Kemper lounged on the couch, flipping through TV channels like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Carly leaned over the back of the couch.

“We’re heading out,” she said.

“Okay, have fun,” Kemper replied, barely looking up.

“Love you!” Carly sang as she grabbed her shawl.

“Bring back some beer on your way home.” After a pause, he added, “Please.”

Carly laughed, already halfway out the door. “Okay, see you around eleven.”

I sighed as we stepped into the hallway. “It’s really going to take that long?”

“Give or take,” she said, breezing toward the elevator.

When the doors opened on the fifth floor, the same businessman from earlier stepped in. His expression softened when he saw Carly, his smile brightening. Then his gaze shifted to me, giving me the same smile. I glared at the floor, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. You sure changed your tune, prick.

At the marina, the wind bit through the dress’s thin fabric, leaving me shivering as I trailed behind Carly. I pulled the black shawl she lent me closer. She strode confidently in her cream jumpsuit, while I struggled to feel anything but exposed. The yacht loomed ahead, sleek and blindingly white under the dim November sky.

“You said it was a boat,” I muttered as the vessel came into full view, “not the Titanic.”

“A yacht,” Carly corrected. “Not a boat. Her name is the Red Runner”

I scowled. “What’s the difference? It floats.”

“So does a paper hat. That doesn’t make it a boat.”

At the gangplank, Carly turned, her voice softer. “If it gets too much, come find me, okay? You only really have to make small talk with me.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sure.”

Standing by the railing, I let the cold breeze wash over me, trying to drown out the noise of clinking glasses and fake laughter. The dress felt tighter with every passing second.

“If someone told me you’d be here, I’d tell them to get their head checked,” came a voice behind me.

I froze, then turned. Erwin. He looked polished, smug, his sharp eyes scanning me like I was some kind of puzzle he wanted to solve.

“If someone told me I’d be here,” I shot back, forcing a smile, “I’d say the same thing.”

He stepped closer, his presence unnervingly solid. “Why are you here? This doesn’t seem like your type of event.”

I looked away, my grip tightening on the railing. “My friend dragged me,” I said, hoping he’d let it drop.

He didn’t. “Your friend?” His tone held a question I didn’t want to answer.

I nodded, refusing to meet his gaze. “She kept bragging about her dad’s boat.”

Erwin studied me for a moment, then leaned in slightly. “If you want, I can tell them you’re not feeling well. There’s still time to leave.”

His offer caught me off guard. I glanced up, searching his face for any hint of sarcasm, but there was none. He meant it. Still, the idea of relying on him for anything made my stomach twist.

“No thanks,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. “I’ll manage.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Suit yourself.”

 Her hands tightened around her clutch as she fought the urge to jump into the water. With my luck, he’d save me.

“Did you bring a date?” she asked, desperate for a change of subject. Erwin regarded her for a moment before answering. She wished she could read his thoughts. The yacht began to move, slowly making its way through the bay. At least if I get sick, I can blame it on seasickness.

Erwin nodded. “I brought my friend, Levi. I’ve been wanting to introduce you.”

I turned my gaze back to the water, her grip on the railing tightening. All those swim lessons she’d rejected, all those memories of floundering in knee-high water—if she could go back, she’d slap herself. Now she was stuck.

Erwin watched her for a moment longer before glancing at the water. “Too late to escape now,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. It was meant as a joke, but to me, it felt more like a reminder of how trapped she was.

The yacht moved further from the shore, and I watched as the distance grew. She thought of Carly’s words—If it gets too much, come find me. It seemed almost impossible now, as if Carly was miles away instead of just on the other side of the boat. 'I'm just supposed to look for you? On this big ass boat.' There was no easy way out, no quick escape. But maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to endure this. 

Chapter Text

Anything could be gained with a bit of effort—or at least, that’s what Erwin frequently told himself. He didn’t want much. By day, he was semi-content as a professor of ethics, by night, a part-owner of a lucrative trafficking business. The hopes of having his own special girl—someone to dote on, to adore—had long been abandoned. That dream had ended a year ago when the last one went… awry.

He and Levi had agreed it was too much trouble. Better to keep business and home life separate. Or so Erwin thought—until he spotted a familiar face stepping into the Sugar Cube Café.

His heart gave a slow, deliberate thud. An ache of familiarity. He wasn’t mistaken. He knew that face, that posture, even the way she moved.

A curious thing.

Without hesitation, Erwin changed course, stepping inside the café instead of heading to his car. He needed to be certain. Needed to confirm that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. The scent of roasted coffee hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of caramel, hazelnut, chocolate, steamed milk. The low murmur of conversation barely reached him. Everyone here was insignificant. Except her.

"Y/N?"

When he called her name, she pretended not to hear him.

A lie. One of omission.

Her spine snapped straight, her forward step suddenly mechanical—like a soldier responding to a command.

Erwin arched a brow.

That reaction alone told him everything.

This was her.

The woman—no, the girl—he had known years ago.

He watched as she approached the counter, ordering something pitiful: bread and water. Not a real meal. Not even close.

Erwin made a mental note—when everything was said and done, he’d teach her proper nutrition. He barely noticed it was his turn to order. The boy at the register looked at him expectantly, but Erwin’s focus remained on his target. She took her sad excuse for food and placed it directly into her bag, already preparing to leave.

His chance was slipping. Right through his fingers like grains of sand.

No. Absolutely not.

He ignored the waiting cashier and moved toward the young woman, reaching out before he could think better of it.

His hand closed around her arm.

It happened so fast. He scarcely thought about his actions before he acted, acting purely on impulse and desperation. The moment his fingers pressed against her skin; her entire body locked up—stiff, unyielding. The croissant she had been holding slipped from her fingers, landing unceremoniously on the café floor. Erwin barely registered the loss of the pastry.

Because all he was looking at was her face.

The sheer terror in her eyes was something visceral.

Animalistic, even.

Her arm was rigid in his grip—not resisting, not fighting, just utterly frozen.

A wounded animal.

When she finally spoke, her voice was small, uneven. Trembling. The words spilled out as though she had just run three miles.

"I—I’m sorry. Do… do I know you?"

Christmas bells.

That was what her voice reminded him of. Soft and delicate, yet sharp with fear.

Slowly, reluctantly, Erwin let go of her arm.

“I apologize.”

The words came easy. Anything to wipe that look off her face.

For a fleeting moment, he almost thought he was back at the warehouse, not in a coffee shop. The way she stared at him—like something lurking in the dark—made him feel as though he had done something frightening.

And yet, he hadn’t.

Had she always been this skittish?

He searched his memory. His time with Beep had been brief but familiar enough. Had she been like this before?

His mind wandered to a memory of watching her through the glass sliding door of Beep’s kitchen. A cool spring day. She had been little, maybe six or seven, her hair in messy pigtails as she ran outside with a bubble wand in her hand, laughing.

No.

She wasn’t like this before.

She was different now.

Erwin quickly decided she must simply be out of her element. That was all. Some people were like that—small, nervous birds, easily startled.

And birds could be coaxed.

He adjusted his expression, letting the apology settle into his features.

"I didn’t mean to startle you," he said smoothly. "Y/N."

Still, she remained rigid. The tension hadn’t left her shoulders. Her eyes stayed sharp.

Suspicious.

Suspicious of what?

"It’s been years," he continued. "I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. You were practically a baby."

She had been. The last time he saw her, she had been thirteen, maybe fourteen, when he moved four states over. Quiet as a mouse. The youngest of Beep's three children.

Erwin smiled faintly at the memory.

Kinder times. A different life entirely.

Where had the years gone? What had it all been for?

He let himself sink into that thought—pondering the weight of his accomplishments against the years spent earning them—until a quiet voice broke through his reverie.

She had spoken.

He barely caught it.

Erwin refocused.

"Smith," he offered, his voice gentler. "Your father and I used to work together."

The explanation did nothing to ease her.

If anything, she looked even more rattled—tightly wound, as if he had just handed her a loaded gun and told her it was empty.

Why?

The café door chimed.

The sound pulled her attention, and she shifted instinctively, sidestepping out of the way.

Erwin mirrored her.

A waltz.

"Excuse us," she murmured.

The intruder barely acknowledged her, instead flashing Erwin a polite, pleased smile. A typical response.

Erwin glanced back at her.

Not a typical response.

She was stiff, her breath quickened. The way she held herself—like a cornered thing—wasn’t natural. Not for someone just running into an old family acquaintance.

Then, her voice cut in unexpectedly.

"Mr. Smith," she said abruptly, tone clipped. "It was good seeing you."

She was in a rush.

Unfortunate.

He wondered where she could be going.

"I’ll tell my dad you said hi."

A weak lie. Politeness, nothing more.

Erwin wasn’t interested in* Beep*. If he had been, he would’ve reached out in the last seven years.

But now… perhaps he had a reason to.

He reached into his pocket, retrieving one of the business cards he had made before the semester started. He held it out to her. "Here. Give this to him."

Her green eyes flickered to his hand, and without much thought, she took the card and carelessly shoved it into her bag.

Rude.

But he could forgive her. She likely didn’t know any better.

Still, her gaze kept flickering toward the door.

She wanted to leave.

"I don’t mean to keep you."

"It’s alright," she said. But he almost didn’t believe her.

"If it’s alright, then let me get you another pastry. It’s my fault you dropped that one."

She shook her head. "I wasn’t meant to have it. Don’t worry about it."

What?

An odd thing to say.

"A masochistic sentiment," he commented lightly.

For the first time, something changed in her expression. The fear in her eyes flickered.

Not fear anymore.

Annoyance.

Then, instead of voicing it, she simply smiled. That same smile she had as a child.

"Goodbye, Mr. Smith."

Light. But curt.

He couldn’t keep her, unfortunately.

"It was good seeing you, Y/N."

She didn’t return the sentiment. Just nodded and walked out the door.

Right through his fingers.

But perhaps *Beep* could be the in he needed.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

The woods were silent.

Erwin had driven far—deep into the sticks. No one came out here. Not really. It was too remote, too forgotten. The kind of place where people got lost, where things stayed buried.

It was cold. An early-November chill lingered in the air, crisp but not yet winter’s bite. The trees loomed tall and brittle, their branches half-naked, clattering against each other like dry bones when the wind stirred.

He had parked along the side of the road and stepped into the thick brush, moving west. 3,538 paces. A distance measured by familiarity, by habit.

The path was overgrown, but he knew the way. His boots crushed damp leaves underfoot, their decay clinging to the air. A crow called somewhere in the distance, its cry sharp against the stillness.

Then, there it was.

The maple tree.

It had changed. The branches—once thick with life—were half-dead now, their limbs blackened, lifeless. A thunderstorm had come through not two months after they first chose this place, splitting the trunk and scarring the bark.

Now, it was slowly withering.

The ground beneath was damp from yesterday’s rain, the earth dark and rich.

At its base, a faint X was still visible on the bark.

Erwin exhaled, leaning against the tree, gloved fingers brushing the rough wood.

The air smelled of damp earth and dying leaves.

"Good morning, Darcy."

The woods did not answer.

"I’m sorry I didn’t visit you yesterday." His voice was soft, almost tender. "The roads were horrible in the rain."

He usually came on Sundays. That was their routine.

A gust of wind stirred the branches, shaking loose a few remaining leaves. They fluttered down around him, some settling near his feet.

Erwin smiled.

"I miss you every day."

His voice was steady, almost wistful.

"It’s been so hard without you."

That, at least, was true. He was more honest with her now than he had ever been in life.

She had been so sad, his Darcy.

His girl.

His to—

He sighed, running a hand down the bark.

"I was in your room last night."

A pause.

"It doesn’t smell like you anymore." His voice was softer now. "I suppose I shouldn’t have let Levi clean it."

A faint chuckle. A small shake of his head.

"He called it a tomb."

The crow cawed again—closer this time.

Erwin tilted his head, considering.

"A tomb without you in it is just a room."

He let the words linger in the cold air. His fingers idly traced the rough bark, his touch gentle.

A root jutted up from the earth near his boot. He nudged it slightly, watching the dirt shift around it.

The wind moved through the trees again, rustling the dead leaves at his feet.

For a moment, Erwin just stood there, listening.

Then, finally, he pushed off the tree, brushing nonexistent dirt from his coat.

"I’ll come back soon."

And with that, he turned and walked away, retracing his 3,538 paces back to the car.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

The drive back from the woods was quiet.

The scent of damp leaves clung to his coat, mixing with the crisp bite of early November air. His fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel, but his mind was elsewhere. Back at the tree. Back at her.

Darcy had been silent today.

Not that she ever spoke. But he could feel her presence. She only had him, and now in death that's still true. Levi has no interest in visiting her. They weren't close...

Routine was important. Sundays were their time. She had once told him that was her favorite day. Yesterday’s storm had kept him away, but she understood. She always did.

And now, here he was. Back on track.

The road stretched ahead, flanked by tall trees that swayed gently in the wind. The world felt empty. A perfect kind of solitude.

Then, he saw it.

A van, pulled off to the side, white smoke curling from under the hood. Old, battered, struggling.

And her.

Y/N.

His hands flexed against the wheel as recognition settled.

She was standing stiffly, arms wrapped tightly around herself, but from this distance, he couldn't see much else.

He let his foot ease off the gas, passing the van just enough to look ahead—no other cars.

A seamless U-turn.

The tires crunched softly against the road as he pulled in front of her van and parked. He reached into his glove box, and pulled out a small gray tracking devise, no larger than a silver dollar. One of several he had on hand. A tool of his business, you never knew when you were going to meet a promising product. And it did no good to lose track of them. Erwin slipped it into his coat pocket before he stepped out, adjusting his coat.

The moment she saw him; her reaction was instant.

She froze.

Not in surprise. In fear.

Interesting. He couldn't understand it, he's never even shown her his true face.

He let a small, relieved smile touch his lips. Gentle. Non-threatening. Perfect, just for her.

“Y/N, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

She blinked at him. Slowly.

Too slow.

That’s when he noticed it.

The redness in her eyes. The slight delay in her movements. The faintest trace of something acrid clinging to the cold air.

She was high. And not only that, but her hair was also wet: the shoulders of her shirt, damp. How irresponsible. She'd been driving around like this.
The realization made his smile falter, though he was careful to keep it from reaching his eyes.

That explained her hesitation.

That explained why she was so slow.

No matter. He could lecture her another time. This would only make her more pliable.

Still, her voice was even when she responded. "Mr. Smith."

He took a measured step forward, eyes flicking toward the van.

"Car problems?" he asked, voice easy, familiar. "Can I take a look?"

A pause.

"Yeah, it'll be fine," she said, glancing toward the trees. "I can walk until I get service to call roadside, so you don’t have to worry about getting your coat dirty."

Not a lie.

But a problem.

Walking would take her miles. Hours, if she didn’t freeze first.

She wasn’t thinking clearly enough to recognize that. But he was.

He let the silence stretch just enough.

"You don’t have service?"

A beat of hesitation.

“Not this far up in the sticks, no.”

A clever backpedal. A quick fix.

But too late.

With a quiet sigh, he slipped off his coat and stepped closer.

“Hold this for me.”

The coat was in her hands before she could refuse.

She fumbled.

Her fingers clenched around the fabric—tighter than necessary.

He caught the way she blinked hard, like she was trying to force herself to focus.

Dazed.

Unsteady.

“You don’t have to do that,” she muttered.

He ignored her.

Instead, he leaned over the engine, eyes sweeping over the damage—not that he particularly cared.

Because as he reached beneath the hood, his fingers brushed the underside of the frame, and with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before, he pressed a small device into place.

A tracker.

Invisible. Undetectable. Permanent.

Still, he made a show of inspecting the engine, his voice calm as he checked hoses, tested nozzles.

The thick scent of pot was stronger here.

Not overpowering, but present. Lingering.

She must’ve smoked not long before this. High. Coatless in 58-degree weather.
"Where's your coat?"

That explained the sluggishness, the lidded eyes, the way her focus drifted just slightly before snapping back.
"Y/N?"
It made her easier to guide. He gave her another glance.
"Hmm?" not chatty today.
“I asked you where your coat was.” He repeated. She gave some halfhearted excuse about it being in her car. Her wet hair was met with another excuse.

"I still haven’t heard from your father," he said casually.

A shift.

"Really?" she asked. Too slow. "I gave him your card."

A lie. She was a liar. But why? He had spoken to her father, not even two days ago. He said she went and ran off at sixteen after he told her to get out until she apologized. Her crime? Going into the refrigerator after he made a rule she wasn't allowed to. Something about her rooting around in compost like a raccoon. She never apologized and never came back. He felt right about the distance he put between himself and *Beep*. He was disgusted. Erwin was by no means a good person, but even he had his limits. And there was no way he'd ever treat his child that way. *Beep* never deserved to have a daughter. But this just made things a lot easier for him.

He didn’t call her out on it. Just hummed, as if accepting her answer.

"You should consider getting a newer vehicle," he mused. "This one is older than you."

"Eventually, I will."

She was trying not to look at him.

He nodded, stepping back. "There’s a crack in your coolant tank. It’s an easy fix. I might have some duct tape in my trunk."

She said nothing. But he felt her watching him as he retrieved the tape.

Her hands were still tight around his coat.

Good.

She was cold. High. Vulnerable.

When he returned, he worked quickly, securing the crack with minimal effort. “You’ll need to get more coolant,” he said as he dusted his hands off.

Then, he offered the next move.

"Why don’t you wait inside my car while I fix it? It’s warm."

A beat of silence.

Then—a rejection. Immediate. Firm.

“I can wait in my van. It’s still warm inside.”

Erwin studied her for a long moment.

He had expected her to agree.

She should have agreed.

She was high. She was cold.

He had underestimated just how stubborn she was. He shouldn't be surprised; she choose to be a runaway instead of apologizing, not that he could blame her. Though if the shoe was on the other foot, he'd have just swallowed his pride.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he chided, though his tone lacked any real reprimand.

Then, she did something unexpected.

She shrugged his hands off.

“With all due respect," she said, voice quiet but unwavering, "you’re basically a stranger to me."

A stranger.

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not irritation. Something more delicate. More precise.

Hurt.

He let his shoulders drop slightly, feigning resignation. “Stranger?” he repeated, like he was testing the word, finding its weight on his tongue. That made sense. If she had grievances with her father. why would she consider him anything more than that?

Then, with a gentle smile—as if conceding to her—he took his coat from her hands and draped it over her shoulders instead.

“You were a child the last time I saw you,” he murmured. “It makes sense you’d see me as a stranger.”

He adjusted the coat slightly.

She let him.

He let her think she had won something. Darcy always had to win, no matter how small and he'd grant her that on occasion. It made things easier.

“It won’t take but five minutes, Darcy,” he reassured.

He turned back to the engine, taping the last few pieces in place. When he was finished, he closed the hood with a firm click.

Then, as he took back his coat and prepared to leave—

"Who’s Darcy?"

Erwin stilled. 'The fuck?'

For just a second.

His fingers tightened around the coat, grip firm before he forced them to relax.

He turned slowly, face unreadable. His voice devoid of any warmth, any semblance of ease.

“What are you talking about?”

She swallowed, but didn’t look away.

“You called me Darcy a second ago,” she said carefully. Y/N raises her hands in an awkward waving motion and made her voice comically deep. “It won’t take but a moment, Darcy.”

Silence.

Then—he laughed.

Not a nervous laugh. Not forced. Just a small, effortless chuckle.

“Did I?” He shook his head slightly, expression amused. “Slip of the tongue. A student you favor” Sloppy. Y/N was Y/N and Darcy was Darcy. One was here, the other rotting 5 feet deep in the ground wrapped in rug.

She didn’t look convinced.

Erwin smiled.

She was frightened.

They'd work on that together. She's had a hard time, he could be patient. Fear could be softened, redirected. He could play this right.

Now, he wouldn’t lose her again.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Erwin found Levi in the backyard, trimming the branches of an overgrown tree. Levi glanced over his shoulder at Erwin, then went back to his work, undeterred.

"You look excited," Levi remarked. "Don’t tell me one of your students actually paid attention in class."

Erwin smiled faintly. "I called out sick today."

A branch snapped and fell at Levi’s feet. He paused, shears in hand. "Now that’s surprising. What’s the occasion?"

"I went to visit Darcy." Erwin’s voice softened, almost reverent.

Levi exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face as he resumed trimming. "I wish you’d let that habit go."

Erwin’s gaze remained wistful. "She only has me. Even now. No one else knows where she is—no one else pays their respects." He smiled slightly, as if indulging in an old ache. "In death, it’s still just me."

"She’ll over it," Levi said flatly. "You’ll lose your job if you keep that up."

Erwin shook his head. "I only went because Sunday’s weather was too poor." A reassuring smile. "Besides, I’ve moved on."

Levi drove the shears into the ground, turning fully toward Erwin, his eyes narrowing. "Moved on, as in you’ve finally given up that delusion of yours?"

Erwin’s lips twitched. "No. I can’t do that, Levi."

"You can. You just won’t." Levi grumbled, looking away.

Erwin let the comment slide, his expression unreadable. "Do you remember—" he paused, the name hanging in the air, unfinished.

Levi frowned, considering. "Vaguely."

"I ran into his daughter." Erwin’s tone held a quiet excitement, his eyes bright.

Levi’s jaw tightened. He sighed. "At the coffee shop, right?" He sounded bored, resigned.

Erwin nodded. "And again today, after I came back from seeing her." He avoided saying Darcy again, as if it might ease Levi’s annoyance.

Levi clipped another branch with a swift snap. "And?"

"Her car broke down." Erwin’s voice took on a smooth, casual quality. "I stopped to fix it."

Levi glanced up, skepticism plain on his face. "A good Samaritan now, are you?" His tone was dry. "Something tells me there’s more."

A sly smile spread across Erwin’s face. "I put a tracker under her hoodd."

Levi turned fully toward him, expression darkening. "So, you intend to wrangle her, then?"

"Not for someone else," Erwin corrected smoothly. "For us."

Levi’s face hardened. "No." He turned back to the tree.

"You haven’t even heard everything," Erwin persisted.

"I don’t need to," Levi cut him off. "We said no more pets."

"She wouldn’t be a pet," Erwin countered.

Levi scoffed. "You wouldn’t see it that way, would you?"

"She’d be—"

"Your ‘baby girl’?" Levi mocked, his voice dripping with derision. "Give it up, Erwin. It didn’t work last time. That ended badly enough. At least the first one brought us a profit."

"This is different." Erwin’s voice held an unshakable certainty.

Levi studied him, unimpressed. "How?" He clipped another branch, patience thinning. "How is this any different from the last one?"

"She needs help," Erwin said, as if that explained everything.

Levi rolled his eyes. "They all need help. Doesn’t mean you bring strays home."

"Real Help"

Erwin’s expression softened, almost pleading. "You’d like her."

"Don’t act like this is for my benefit," Levi muttered.

Erwin exhaled a knowing breath. "Maybe it’s selfish of me. But I do consider you."

Levi scoffed but didn’t argue. Twisted as it was, there was some truth in that.

"She’s small. Young. No coat in that van of hers that’s older than she is. And she reeks of pot," Erwin added, voice quieter. Vulnerability was an irresistible hook.

Levi remained unimpressed. "Nothing you said makes me interested."

"She wouldn’t be a problem," Erwin pressed. "She’s quiet. Mousy, even."

"I hate rodents," Levi shot back without missing a beat.

Erwin chuckled. "Think of her as a cat, then."

Levi clipped another branch with more force than necessary. "How about I don’t think about her at all? Follow my lead on that."

"You can’t make up your mind until you meet her," Erwin urged.

Levi shook his head. "I’m not playing your game, Erwin. If you want me to help you grab her, fine. It’s sport. But if you expect me to keep her here—break, tame, deal with another brat—then I draw the line."

Erwin smiled slyly. "I thought you said breaking was the best part."

"You don’t shit where you eat," Levi retorted coldly. "Work is work."

"She’s different." Erwin leaned forward slightly, conviction in his voice.

Levi didn’t budge. "They’re always ‘different,’ aren’t they, Erwin?"

"You’ll see what I mean when you meet her." Erwin’s certainty was unwavering.

Levi’s expression remained impassive, indifferent. "Whatever you say. It doesn’t change anything."

Chapter Text

The pier seemed to shrink much faster than I expected as the motors of the boat hummed loudly; too loudly. The wind whipped my hair back as it bit my skin, feeling more like blades of glass against my face than anything of nature. The air, thick with the ocean salt held a hint of something else to it, something almost… sour, a sea like brine. The smell clung to my nostrils like a bad memory.

His voice came out gently. A deception, really. It would be like trusting a bear just because it is fluffy. I Glanced at Erwin who stood next to me as if he were my date. “You look pale.”

Pulling my borrowed shawl tighter around my shoulders, I shrug.” Theres no sun.” I said it as if it were obvious. The sky hung heavy with clouds, all thick grays and silvers, not a speck of blue in sight. Somewhere above us, gulls cried out—sharp and jagged against the background hum of the engine. I watched one dive and spiral, letting the wind toss it around like it enjoyed being at the mercy of something stronger. ‘Must be nice.’

“I fucking hate birds.” I said under my breath. Erwin, not hearing me, turned his head slightly. “Hmm?”

“Nothing important,” I said, managing a thin smile. “I’m not in the best mood. Forgive me.”

Erwin tuts under his breath. “I’m not surprised; you seemed to look forward to spending the holiday with your family.” What is he going on about now My smile tightens. “Did I say that?”

Erwin nods his head lightly. “I believe you did, back at the gym. “His voice was certain. But as far as I was concerned, I am certain it was bullshit.

“I’m pretty sure I told you I didn’t know what I was doing.” I said, making my even but light, almost playful. Being Hard like steel never really got me anywhere.

Erwin seems to want to challenge me. “You said you were going home. Not that it’s any of my business.” I could feel the Vein in my temple pulse. ‘Why bring it up if you know it’s not your business?’

I lightly cough into my fist, clearing my throat. “I told you that I was ‘real popular’ these days, and that I didn’t know what I was doing.” I said with full certainty. I remember because I remember thinking my lie was clever and full proof and couldn’t be disproven, But I was also higher than a kite and running on anxious fumes. I can feel his eyes linger for a moment before he chuckles. “Ah, that does sound familiar. You have a way a speaking.”

“A way of speaking? How do you mean?’ I asked. Erwin just smiles. “I can tell you think before you speak.” The wind cuts past us again, tussling my hair and making me wince as they brush against my face like.

Erwin seems unphased by the wind. Not one hair seems to move out of place. A statue like man, if I ever saw one. I know I should have fought to wear pants instead of a dress.  

“So where is your uh-

Carly’s voice cuts through like a knife.

“Hey! There you are.” she looks frazzled, but excited as her links her arm through my own and tugs me away without giving Erwin so much as a glance.

I felt my shoulders instantly relaxed, I hadn’t even realized how tense they were until mildly surprised Erwin was no longer in my line of sight.

“Sorry for ditching you as soon as we got on deck,” She mutters. I shake my head.

“It’s not a big deal... I take it you found your dad then.” I ask as we walk about the steps to the upper deck. The air feels much warmer, the bite of the wind no longer stinging against my skin. The upper deck is riddled with several heaters. Carly stops as we get to the top of the steps.

“I did. He’s in a great mood.” Her voice is riddled with relief. I frown.

“Do I need to be worried?” I ask, my voice serious. Carly immediately denies it. Letting my arm go to emphasize with her hands how little I had to worry.

“You’d only need to be worried if you were a man, had a face tattoo, or your name was Kemper.”

“What? Kemper is already a ma- “Carly continues, cutting me off.

“You look perfectly unassuming. Daddy will love you. He was so happy when I told him Kemper couldn’t make it.” Unassuming.

I let out a breath and pinched my nose. “What does unassuming mean?’ Carly’s smile drops slightly. “It means you don’t look like a degenerate who does drugs.” My jaw fell open just a little. “You sold me just pills yesterday,” I said blandly.

Carly scoffed. “Yeah, well, no one would guess that. And it’s important you mention that to no one.”

I scoffed right back. Obviously. That’s not fine dining conversation—let alone something I’d bring up casually with anyone who isn’t actively handing me a baggie.

“The fact that I take drugs, or the fact that you sell them?”

Carly linked her arm with mine again. “Obviously both.”

She pushed open the double doors to the yacht’s main lounge from atop a grand staircase, revealing a space that looked like a scene from Dynasty—all polished surfaces, cream walls, soft lighting, a large hanging chandelier and the low murmur of practiced laughter. People swanned around in burgundy shirts and black slacks, balancing trays like it was a performance, while the guests looked like they’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine or tax evasion scandal.  The centerpieces on the tables were orange roses, yellow lilies, and burgundy mums, with small white and orange pumpkins.

A gust of warm, circulated air hit me in the face, along with the rich smells of roasting meat, butter, and sharp herbs. My eyes immediately scanned the room, searching for that familiar face. The second man I need to avoid, trapped in the same boat of wasp as me. But he was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe he bailed before this thing left the port... what I should’ve done,” I muttered under my breath as we descended the stairs.

“Hmm? Someone bailed?” Carly asked, glancing at me. Shit.  ‘Stop thinking out loud.’

“Nothing,” I said casually. My free hand reaches to tuck my hair behind my ear.  “Just wondering if they have sangria.”

Carly’s nose crinkles, “This is an event for snobs Elena. If there isn’t sangria, someone will make it for you.”

The sounds of chatter around us felt overwhelming but I ignored the feeling. Carly’s eyes wonder about the room. “You and that guy seemed real cozy. That your type?”

“Pff. Never would have guessed you needed glasses.”

It came out harsher than I wanted it to.

Carly let out a small laugh, not at all bothered by my bite. “Wearing contacts. And don’t be so touchy. I get it. You look nice—of course he wanted to talk with you.”

Before I could retort, dismiss, or even rebuke her words, someone approached us balancing a tray.

“Drinks, ma'am?” the server offered politely.

Carly plucked one of the cocktails from the tray. It had a long stem and a tulip-shaped bowl, creamy white at the bottom, brown and bubbling at the top, with a sprig of something green and a floating slice of lime.

“Thanks,” she said smoothly.

“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the strange layers.

Carly took a sip and raised her brows. “I think it’s a Dark and Stormy.”

“That’s right, ma'am,” the server confirmed.

I frowned. “Is that rum?”

“Yes,” the server replied with a smile. “Dark rum, ginger beer, and lime.”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

Carly looked surprised. “Don’t like rum?”

I shrugged. Last time I had rum, I blacked out and woke up underneath a bar booth missing both of my shoes and my $50 bra. I had to call 911 to be let out because all the staff had already left.

“Not particularly. No.”

Carly glanced back at the server. “Do we have sangria?”

“We have a Rioja-fruit infusion,” the server replied.

“One of those, please,” I said.

 “Yes, ma'am. I’ll be back shortly,” the server replied before scurrying off. We only took a few more steps forward before another staff member—male this time—came over with a tray of food.

“Hors d'oeuvres?” he offered.

Carly shook her head. “No thank you.”

They looked like tiny palm sized pot pies.

“Yeah,” I said, taking one that fit in my palm. “Thank you.”

The server nodded and walked off as I popped it into my mouth.

Hot. Too hot. Nearly burning the roof of my mouth. I cover my mouth, to let in cooler air as I chew.

Carly suddenly perked up. “Oh, there’s Daddy! Come on.” I chewed faster as she tugged on my arm. It was a tiny turkey pot pie, with what I thought was a bit of cranberry sauce. Carly led me until we reached a tall man with broad shoulders, short blonde hair combed back, and a thick mustache. His eyes were brown—the same as Carly's. He looked familiar. I barely remembered him from the OVA, but maybe I’d just seen him around town. He had just finished talking to another man who walked off as we approached.

“Daddy, this is my friend, Elena,” Carly said brightly.

He looked down at me, gaze scanning me like I was an item up for auction. I swallowed the last of the tiny pot pie a second too fast and wiped my fingers on the skirt of my emerald-green dress before offering him my hand.

His brow twitched, just slightly, before he took it. I expected a firm shake.

Instead, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips to the back of it.

I have been touching railings since I got here, and I haven’t seen a single bottle of Purell in sight.

“Elliot,” he said. “It’s good to meet one of Carly’s school friends.”

“Uh—”

“No, Daddy,” Carly cut in, her tone light but quick. “She’s a regular at the salon. Remember?”

His eyes flicked down to my hand—still in his—then to my nails, which Carly had forced me to get done a few weeks ago.

“Yep. Every two weeks like clockwork.” I gave the kind of smile you practice in mirrors when you want to seem charming and have your life together. Elliot released my hand, his eyes shifting back to Carly. “Ah. My mistake. So many guests—I misremembered.”

“You mean the thing I told you yesterday and ten minutes ago?” Carly tutted, her voice edged just enough to hint she wasn’t joking.

Elliot’s brow quirked. “Now, Cricket, you’ve had many friends... none of them memorable. And the ones that were, are disappointing. It was a small detail. I remember now.”

Yikes. Dad of the year, over here.

Carly’s eyes narrowed, but before she could fire something back—and before I had to decide whether to fake a laugh or throw myself overboard—I cleared my throat.

“It’s a big event,” I said. “No one expects a perfect memory.”

Elliot smiled at that. That smooth, politician’s smile. Practiced. Pleasant. Perfectly manufactured.

“I’m glad you understand. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders.” He glanced at my hands again. “Your nails look nice.”

I smiled. “Thank you,” Carly and I said in unison.

We looked at each other, then laughed—hers was genuine. Mine was the kind of laugh you give when you’re trying not to sweat through silk.

Elliot chuckled, too. “You seem like good friends. Good.”

He said it like he meant it. And maybe he did.

But the way he looked at me—like he was still trying to place whether he’d seen my face on the news, or on a banned from entry sign at some country club for causing a scene or stealing—made it hard to tell if I’d passed whatever test this was… or if I’d just slipped through the cracks.

His eyes shifted, locking with someone else’s across the room. Then, without looking at me again, he reached out and gave Carly’s shoulder a light pat.

“Enjoy yourself Cricket. Mingle with your friend.”

And with that, he walked off.

Carly let out a breath—quiet, short, and polite. As if she’d been holding it since she presented me to her dad like I was a project she got a gold star on.

I cleared my throat again. “So... your dad seems... like a prick.”

Carly gave me a look, then scoffed. “You have no idea. But he didn’t flare his nostrils, so I guess you met his standard. Congrats.”

“Flare his nostrils?” I echoed.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. He likes you. A win is a win.”

Carly led me along the room; her arm still linked in mine like a chain.

“Doesn’t feel like I won anything,” I muttered.

“That’s because I won,” Carly said breezily. “You just happen to be my plus one, so you’re winner adjacent.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, snark curling in my voice. “And what exactly did I win?”

Before she could answer, the server from earlier returned—this time carrying a tray with one tall, dramatic glass. It was filled only a quarter of the way with dark red wine, a long skewer balanced inside, stacked with strawberries, lemons, and berries like some overachieving fruit kabob. The glass was frosted slightly, a few ice cubes catching the light.

“Your Rioja-fruit infusion, ma’am,” the female server said politely.

“My what?” I felt startled, forgetting I made up I wanted sangria on rhe fly.

Carly handed off her now-empty glass—I hadn’t even noticed her finish it—and nodded at the drink. “You win sangria. Free dinner on a yacht. And hopefully...” Her voice trailed off as she picked up the glass and turned it toward me, “...some riveting conversation.”

The server had already walked off before I remembered to say thank you.

I took the glass. Heavy and smelling sickening sweet; tantalizingly so.

My eyes drifted back over the crowd, scanning again for Levi. Still no sign of him.

‘Let’s hope he keeps it that way.’

I sighed. He doesn’t even know you. Not this time, we’re fine.

I take a sip of my too put together drink. The moment the red wine hits my tongue, my eyes widen. Like velvet in a glass. Smooth and bold at the same damn time. Cold like the artic. Indulgent in a way that felt unnecessary. My throat warmed, and something in my jaw clenched, instinctively aware I’d just swallowed more than I could afford.

I lowered the glass slowly, licking a trace of droplet off my lip. “Well,” I muttered, “that’s certainly not Franzia.”

Carly laughed—short and light. “That box stuff? Definitely not. Not that it really matters. Wine is wine”

“Long as its free I guess.”

We shuffle about the room. Carly leads me to a Trio of women who were talking amongst themselves.  

“Hey.” She calls out, voice once again, bubbly like champagne fuzz. Carly gently touches my arm, her voice light as she introduces me. "This is my friend, Elena."

The women all turn their perfectly polished smiles toward me. It's all very Stepford-esque, and I don’t trust any of it. But Carly seems genuinely happy and excited, so I play along. One of the older women speaks, her overly-plumped lips parting in a saccharine smile. Her dress barely contains her enormous breasts, which look as if they could burst from their low-cut confinement at any moment.

"Elena, what a beautiful name," she coos.

“Thanks, I got it for my birthday,” I reply, trying to keep my tone polite. “And you are?”

She beams at me, letting out a curt laugh that hits the ear wrong; her teeth unnervingly perfect—too white, too identical, too unnatural. Her blonde hair looks like it’s been pulled back tightly and stapled behind her head, and her face doesn’t move when she speaks. Botox, maybe.

“I’m Vanda,” she says, gesturing to the young woman next to her, “and this is my daughter, Alanis.”

Alanis is striking, tall—maybe six feet, and slender like a willow. Her dark brown hair cascades down her back, a stark contrast to her mother. Maybe the same age as Carly. She looks like a she just came off a billboard to advertise something that no one needs but everyone wants. 

The third woman reminds me a bit of Michelle Pfeiffer in Stardust, with black, bouncy, shoulder-length hair. Her navy dress sparkles as much as her drink. She has a slight pudge around her midsection. Too much wine, maybe. Then again, there’s really no such thing. 

“Hollis,” she says with a slight Russian accent. Her smile slight, not showing teeth.

“It’s nice to meet one of Carly’s friends,” Alanis says warmly. “She’s always so Mysterious.”

Carly laughs, and this time it’s real. “I’m not mysterious,” she says. “I’m just busy.”

Alanis leans in with a playful grin, like she’s going to drop something juicy. “That’s not what I hea—”

“Are you a model?” I ask, word vomiting out my question without much thought or consideration, and Alanis looks surprised.

“She is!” Vanda announces proudly, answering for her pride. “She’s about to do a show in France for Miu Miu.”

Alanis blushes, a hint of embarrassment flashing across her face. “I might. I’m just a backup.”

“Nonsense,” Vanda insists. “Of course they’ll have you on the runway—you’re perfect. I made sure of it.”

Alanis shifts uncomfortably. “I’m more worried about the language barrier.”

“All those years of taking Spanish,” Vanda says dismissively, “it’s basically the same thing.”

Hollis laughs, the sound unapologetically loud. “Honestly, Alanis, you didn’t need to learn Spanish just to speak to the help. They came all the way here; the least they can do is learn English.”

I raise an eyebrow. Carly tenses slightly, her smile lessens but she holds it together.

“Spanish and French are practically cousins, right Carly?” Vanda asks, her tone suggesting she expects agreement.

Carly smiles tightly. “Of course, Vanda.”

Hollis rolls her eyes and sips her sparkling cider, then leans over conspiratorially. “I learned English quickly. It’s what I had to do to do if I wanted to talk to my husband, though I don’t quite need him for conversation” she adds, patting her stomach.

Carly’s eyes widen slightly, and she smiles. “Will you be teaching your baby Russian, Hollis?”

Hollis laughs again, patting her slight pudge. “Of course I will! After 18 rounds of IVF my son will speak his mother’s language. I may become senile one day. What if I forget English?” She looks entirely unbothered, a small smile still on her face.

Vanda nods in satisfaction, as if Hollis’s response is somehow proof of her point. “I know how to ask for a bathroom fluently in French. If I can do it, anyone can.”

Alanis looks mortified. I take a sip of the bitter wine in my glass, waiting for her to speak in French. 

‘Good or bad. I want to hear it.’

“Mom don’t be silly. You learned it online,” Alanis mutters.

Carly chimes in diplomatically, “Online classes can be reputable.”

Alanis shakes her head. “She didn’t take a class. She just watched some YouTube videos.”

“It’s essentially the same thing,” Vanda says dismissively.

I smirk. “It’s definitely the same thing,” I agree, and Carly catches the facetiousness in my tone, her lips twitching in a suppressed smile.

Vanda narrows her eyes slightly, then smiles again. “I knew you looked like a smart girl. Did you go to university with Carly?”

“No,” I reply, “We met at her salon.”

Carly chimes in, eyes on Vanda, but her tone aimed squarely at saving me from further scrutiny. “Every time she comes in, she won’t stop going on about whatever book she’s reading.”

‘I do that? I don’t do that. Do I?’ I glanced at her, genuinely thrown.

Carly meets my eyes, then turns back to the group with a knowing smile. “Didn’t you just finish The Cartel?”

Hollis blinked at me; head tilted. “The drug cartel?”

I took another sip of my wine, the skewer of fruit brushing against my nose as I tilted the glass.  
“Yeah,” I said casually. “It’s about a DEA agent hunting down a drug lord in Mexico. Lots of politics and corruption. Very... patriotic.”

Vanda’s lips thinned—not at me, but at the mere topic.
“I despise those people who keep bringing that filth here,” she said, tone sharp. “It makes us all look so... uncouth.”

Carly, ever the master of timing, reached for another flute of something pale and sparkling from a passing server. I gave a solemn nod, sweet as pie.
“Oh, totally,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I hate drugs so, so, so much. We, as a country, really need to crack down—especially on the dealers.”

Carly choked on her drink.

The sound was quick, but sharp, and she immediately reached for a napkin Alanis offered her without hesitation.

“You, okay?” Alanis asked her low, concerned.

Carly wiped her mouth and waved her hand. “It just went down the wrong way. I’m fine. Thanks”

I took another sip of wine, playing the part of the well-mannered plus one while the room shifted ever so slightly with the sound of jazz playing in the background

“I don’t see the issue,” Hollis chimed in brightly, like she was talking about seasonal florals. “My husband only hires people on illegal drugs. You don’t have to pay them a cent if they get hurt.”

Well, I thought, that’s completely not unethical at all.

Alanis blinked. “Doesn’t that cause problems? I mean... having all your workers high?”

“If it does,” Hollis said with a shrug, “I haven’t noticed any problems. No consequences on my end.”

Carly gave a small nod, her voice smooth and easy. “The reward of dodging settlements is probably worth more than the cost of a few mistakes. Ones that might’ve happened even if they were sober.”

Vanda looked visibly impressed. “That’s actually brilliant.”

Then she turned, her gaze slicing toward Carly like a polished knife.
“But Carly,” she said, her voice honeyed with condescension, “I was under the impression that your little shop didn’t get much business.”

Carly’s smile falters just for a second before she recovers. “It has regulars. It’s profitable.”

Hollis waves her manicured hand dismissively, towards Vanda while looking at Carly. “It’s nothing wrong with working. I worked for a long time. Now my husband is my work. Soon, baby will be too. No shame in it.”

Vanda sighs, seeming drained by Hollis’s input. “I wouldn’t call being ordered by catalogue work exactly. But cultural differences aside..” 

Hollis snaps her head at Vanda, her eyes narrowing. But she keeps it in. 

I sip at my wine again. ‘Did she just call her a mail order bride?’ 

“You’d be surprised,” I said easily, swirling my wine. “Her clientele are extremely loyal. After all, there’s no one else I trust to get me my cuticle oil.”

I took another sip, letting the Rioja coat my throat in all its chilly, overpriced decadence. The skewer of fruit tapped my cheek as I drank—an annoying garnish that smelled better than it tasted.

Alanis blinked. “Cuticle oil?”

Carly didn’t miss a beat. “Her nail beds were atrocious,” she said, crisp as a slap, before tossing me a sly little smile. “But at least we got you to stop biting them.”

Vanda shook her head at Carly, her expression morphing into something between pity and judgment. “Even so, sweetie. With your face, you shouldn’t have to deal with all that.”

“Mother—” Alanis’s voice came tight, embarrassed.

“I’m not being rude,” Vanda insisted breezily. “She shouldn’t have to run that little shop. Her father’s shipping company is doing well. If you were smart, you’d find yourself a wealthy man and snatch him up. There are a few here to celebrate. It’s perfect. I saw a lovely man earlier…”

She placed a hand over her chest, as if recalling a scene from a romance novel. “Such steely grey eyes. I swear they were almost silver.”

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Steely grey eyes?

I scanned the room again, eyes darting through clusters of suits and soft lighting. No sign of him yet. Maybe the wine was making me paranoid. Maybe she was talking about someone else. Maybe there were a lot of rich men here with cold shark eyes.

Carly gave a polite laugh, though I could see the tightness in it now, the way her posture stiffened just slightly. “I’m still with my boyfriend. We’re very happy. Not thinking about marriage yet.”

We will not witness a meet-cute with Levi, I told myself. We won’t.

I nodded, keeping my voice calm. “They seem really happy to me.”

Vanda turned toward me, offering a look I think was meant to be soothing. Her lips puckered like she was trying to kiss the idea of being kind. “Nail biting is a terrible habit, dear. It chips your teeth. I’ll give you the number of my dentist—he’ll help fix that smile of yours. Maybe even whiten it. You should take more pride in your mouth.”

My lips parted in brief disbelief before I snapped them shut, tight as a vice. As if I’d been bewitched by the sheer gall of her “good intentions.” Or maybe that was the price of not agreeing with her—cosmetic advice as a veiled warning. My tongue ran across the ridges of each tooth on instinct.

Y/N didn’t have a perfect smile. There was a small gap near her left canine, a few tiny chips on the bottom row—only noticeable if someone stared. And apparently, people like Vanda did. Her teeth weren’t Aryan white, no. But they weren’t yellow either. Even in this bullshit simulation of a life, I still brushed them every day. Two minutes of effort to avoid an issue that didn’t need to exist. That had to count for something.

Still, the heat crept up behind my ears.

Not because I cared what she thought.

But because she said it like she was doing me a favor.

Alanis gave me a sympathetic look—silent, unsure. What could she possibly say?

Wow, I thought. Just—wow.

But Vanda had already turned back to Carly, judgment moving on like a passing storm cloud.

“Why not?” she asked, her voice light and girlish. “Time waits for no one. If it were me—and I’ve been in your shoes before—I’d lock him down before he gets the good sense to leave.”

Hollis leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, if you do marry, don’t marry for love. It doesn’t last,” she said, rubbing her belly. She couldn’t have been more than a few months along. “I know some men in Russia who’d adore you.”

I decided it was time to redirect the conversation. Give Vanda a stage she couldn’t resist—and maybe a gentle shove off of it.

“Can I hear some of your French, please?” I asked sweetly, smiling with my mouth closed.

Vanda lit up instantly, her smile smug. Alanis sighed, already bracing. “She’s honestly just a dabbler. She knows a few words, not full sentences.”

“Shush, Alanis. The girl wants to hear some culture.” Vanda licked her wine-dark lips, then spoke slowly and with great pride.
“Mes toilettes sont dans mon vagin. Pas d'araignées dans mes yeux, s'il te plaît.”

Carly nodded, looking genuinely impressed. “Wow. I feel like I’m already there. What did you say?”

Vanda opened her mouth to respond, but I cut in—brisk, like someone late for work and ready to make that everyone else’s problem.

“She said, ‘My toilet is in my vagina. No spiders in my eyes, please.’”

Carly snorted and muttered, “Excuse me,” while Hollis took a long sip of her sparkling cider, eyes averted but clearly smiling.

Vanda’s expression twisted. “What? No, I asked where the bathroom was and thanked them for their help.”

I shook my head, my voice dry. “No, you’ve got a few wires crossed. But your pronunciation? Outstanding.”

Effort deserves compliment, after all.

Hollis, no longer able to hold it in, bursts out laughing; almost spilling her drink. “Don’t be embarrassed Vanda, at least we aren’t in France.”

“I told you to take a real class,” Alanis mutters.

“I wouldn’t get it that wrong,” Vanda says boldly. “When did you start learning French?”

It’s literally my first language, I thought, suddenly exhausted. I may not have perfect teeth, but I know you're French is shitty. I shrug. “Around the time I was born.”

Vanda purses her lips, clearly not pleased with my response. “People are always trying to teach their kids things too young, and it doesn’t stick. Paul is from Paris—he would know. Paul!” She waves her hand, beckoning an older man who looks bewildered by the sudden attention.

“Mom, you don’t have to get him involved,” Alanis says, clearly embarrassed.

“This won’t ruin anything,” Vanda insists. “We’re all still having a great time, right?” She looks at Carly and I, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Right,” Carly and I say in unison, perfectly polite.

Paul arrives, his balding head shining under the lights. “Such beautiful ladies. How can I be of service?”

“I was telling these young girls and my daughter how simple French is,” Vanda explains, her tone lofty.

“Oh yes,” Paul agrees enthusiastically. “It’s a beautiful language. One of the easiest to learn.”

Hollis pipes in. “You must be of high intelligence to learn Russian. My Dot gave up long ago.”

Carly jumps in, her smile polite but her eyes betraying her curiosity. “I’d love to learn French. How do you ask for a bathroom?”

Paul smiles, seemingly delighted by her interest. “Où se trouvent les toilettes?”

Carly, still balancing her wine glass with the same elegance she used to walk out of arguments unscathed, tapped her fingers on her palm in applause. “So elegant.”

Hollis grinned, her tone dripping with amusement. “So romantic. I’d fall in love if I didn’t know you were asking for the shitter.”

Paul chuckled, momentarily thrown but trying to keep the mood light. “You honor me, but I don’t want trouble from Pixas.”

Vanda’s lips pressed into a line—not thin, just tight with effort. “Oh, that’s just one way to say it,” she muttered.

I decided to test the waters. Maybe even splash a little.

“Monsieur Paul, de quelle partie de la France êtes-vous?” (Mr. Paul, which part of France are you from?) I asked, casually swirling the wine in my glass.

Paul lit up like a man seeing his hometown after decades abroad. He took my hand with surprising grace and kissed it lightly. “Mademoiselle, je suis originaire de Rouen. (Miss, I’m originally from Rouen.) Your accent is quite lovely. Are you fluent?”

Before I could answer, Vanda gave a derisive little scoff. “Of course not.”

I smiled sweetly, turning just enough to include her in the glow. Showing all of my teeth, feeling elevated. “Je suis née en Bourgogne, plus précisément à Beaune.”( I was born in Burgundy, more precisely in Beaune.)

Paul beamed. “So, you like wine?”

I matched his grin. “Je saigne le Pinot Noir.”( I bleed Pinot Noir)

Paul placed a hand on his chest, delighted. “Incredible—a woman after my own heart.”

Alanis stared at me like I’d pulled a dove out of a top hat. “Wow. Your French sounds… good.”

Carly blinked, visibly impressed. “Yeah. It really does.”

I wave my free hand still holding my glass, the skewer of fruit jostling with each movement. “Thanks, but, It’s a bit rusty. It’s been a while.”

Vanda’s glare hit me like cheap perfume—strong, unnecessary, and meant to linger. “So, you wanted to embarrass me.”

I tilted my head. “Just answering a question.”

Alanis sighed, exasperated. “Mom, you said we were all having a good time.”

Carly chimed in, calm but pointed. “And you were the one who called Mr. Paul over.”

Paul looked between us, visibly rattled now. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he said quickly, letting go of my hand. “I just got excited.”

Carly leaned in a little. “So, when did you learn French?”

Paul, missing her angle completely, grinned like he was announcing a royal birth. “When did she learn? She’s a native.”

Vanda who had been silent, looks back at Carly, her expression hard. “I thought you said she was your friend.”

“I am her friend,” I cut. “I just don’t feel the need overshare.”

Paul nods approvingly. “She’s right. Femme mystérieuse are very popular. It’s in our blood. She is true French—a woman after my own heart.”

I take another sip of my wine, smiling at the small bit of solidarity. It’s been a long time since I had a back-and-forth in my native tongue, and I relish it.

“Do you visit home often, Miss Elena?” Paul asks.

I take a deep breath, my gaze softening. “I haven’t been back since my grandparents passed.”

Alanis offers a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry for your loss. “Paul nods, his tone gentle. “Mes condoléances, Mademoiselle Elena.”

“Merci, Monsieur Paul,” I reply, feeling a pang of sadness, I thought I’d buried. Vanda’s tone cuts through the moment, irritated. “It’s a bit tactless to speak in a language you know we don’t understand.”

Carly speaks up, her voice carefully controlled. “It sounded like ‘my condolences’ to me.”

Alanis nods in agreement. “And ‘merci’ is ‘thank you,’ yeah?”

I nodded. “It doesn’t language barrier, Alanis. It’s not that hard once you start. Besides, you’d be shocked by home common English is.”

Alanis looks relieved, hope shining in her eyes.

Paul tilts his head, looking at me with curiosity. “How long has it been since you’ve been to your home, Miss Elena?”

I take a moment, sipping my wine. “I left when I was nine.”

Carly’s eyes widen somewhat. “That long? When did you learn English?”

I smile faintly, a touch of melancholy beneath it. “I started when I was nine.”

“Hey!” Alanis’s sudden exclamation pulls my attention, her excitement catching me off guard. I look up, startled by her enthusiasm.

“I thought you looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure. You drew my picture once!” she beams.

Vanda turns to me, raising an eyebrow. “She drew you. You’re an artist?”

Alanis continues, smiling at me. “You look so pretty tonight, I almost didn’t recognize you. Not that you didn’t look pretty in the park!”

I smile, slightly embarrassed but appreciative. “Thank you.”

Carly looks puzzled but stays silent. Paul, still standing with us, refrains from speaking more French—likely to avoid upsetting Vanda again.

“A mysterious French-born, wine-loving artist,” Paul muses with a smile. “Were you self-taught or professionally trained?”

I hesitated for a second, feeling a little like a deer in headlights. “Oh, I just dabble for fun,” I reply modestly.

Alanis is already scrolling through her phone. “I loved it so much I took a picture of it—just in case it got damaged.” She shows the group the sketch I did, and suddenly it all comes back. The drawing was of a woman with a strong Greek nose, a pixie haircut, and wearing a black corset.

“Oh wow, that was you?” I say, smiling in recognition.

Carly leans closer, looking at the phone. “You drew this?” she asks, clearly surprised. I feel a pang of guilt; this is technically only the fourth time Carly, and I have hung out—two of those times were just for buying drugs. It’s not like she really knows much about me.

Paul smiles, examining the picture. “You seem to have a steady technique. Self-taught?”

I nod, trying to downplay it. “Yeah, it’s just for fun.”

I look at Alanis. “I didn’t even recognize you.”

“It was the day before I got my nose done,” Alanis says, a slight blush creeping onto her cheeks. She seems a little embarrassed, which puzzles me. Her nose looks good. Not looking barbie doll like in the slightest.

“I liked your old nose, but it’s stunning now,” I tell her sincerely. “If you told me you were born with it, I’d believe you.”

Carly nods. “Dr. Yeager did an amazing job. And you healed so quickly.”

Alanis blushes deeper. “Thank you.”

“How much was the sketch?” Vanda asks, cutting in.

Alanis frowns slightly, thinking back. “I don’t remember… I think it was five dollars?” She looks at me for confirmation.

I nod. “I was doing it for donations. It was a good way to get some practice in.”

Paul shakes his head in disbelief. “Five dollars? Far too cheap. You’re underselling yourself.”

“Well, she is self-taught,” Vanda says dismissively. She scrutinizes the sketch, her eyes narrowing. “You could have cleaned up her eyebrows. It’s a sketch, not one of those instant photos.”

“It’s called a Polaroid,” Carly says, her tone calm but pointed.

Vanda waves her hand dismissively. “Yes, those awful things. You can’t edit them.” 

Alanis puts her phone away, smiling at me. “I love it.” 

I tilt my glass back, narrowly avoiding being smacked in my nose again and realize it’s empty. "Shame," I think, only half-listening to Carly and Alanis’s conversation beside me about a client who wanted shadow roots and a Money piece.  I gently nudge Carly's shoulder to get her attention. She turns to me, her brows rising curiously.

"I’ll be back," I say, giving a faint smile.

"Want me to come with?" Carly asks, her voice casual, but her eyes seem genuinely concerned.

The corner of my mouth twitches at the thought. Having her as a buffer could be good, but the bar is literally in eyesight. I can manage that.

"I’ll be fine," I assure her.

Vanda, noticing my empty glass, chimes in, "You don’t have to leave to get a new drink." She raises her hand toward one of the servers, already motioning for them to come over.

I quickly put my hand up in a stop gesture. "Thank you, Ms. Vanda, but I want to see what they have over by the bar. Maybe sit for a few minutes."

My focus shifts down to my feet, which do ache a bit in these shoes.

Vanda drops her hand, her lips pursing slightly in what I think is a pout. "I’m sure they have everything you could want right here," she replies, a slight edge to her voice.

Carly nods in agreement. "The selection is good, but I get it. Sometimes sitting at a bar feels different." She gives me a small shrug. "My feet kind of hurt, and I’ve been sitting all day."

She’s being so considerate, even though she practically blackmailed me into being here.

Paul suddenly speaks up. "I’ll join you, Elena," he says, surprising me.

I glance at him, caught off guard. "You don’t have to," I say, my tone unsure.

Paul shakes his head lightly. "I’d like a drink too. I’m not much of a cocktail guy," he admits with a smile.

I look over at Carly, and the other women. I won’t be too long," I say, as if seeking their permission.

Paul offers me his arm. I take it after a beat of hesitation. As we make our way to the bar, Paul switches back to French.

"{Ms. Elena, you certainly are charming, but I can't say I expect less from a friend of Carly’s.}"

Why did I assume this was his first meeting with Carly?

"{Have you known Carly long?}" I ask.

"{This is only my second time meeting her, but she has an air of confidence that sticks with you,}" Paul replies, chuckling lightly.

That’s one way to put it.

When we reach the bar, Paul releases my arm and pulls out the tall chair, bowing slightly as if to invite me to sit. I can’t help but smile at the theatrics. "You certainly are a character," I think to myself, glancing at the chair, feeling a pang of hesitation about climbing into it without looking clumsy.

Paul, as if reading my thoughts, offers his hand again. "{Allow me to assist, madam.}"

I take his hand, placing my foot on the chair's bar at the base, stepping up, and managing to settle into the seat without too much awkwardness. Paul sits beside me once I’m comfortably up.

"{Thank you, Mr. Paul,}" I say politely.

"{My dear lady, please, just Paul is fine. We should stick together, shouldn’t we?}" he says, his eyes twinkling.

"Sure, why not?" I think.

"{Paul it is,}" I reply.

The busty bartender moves behind the counter, catching my eye. I had thought she was a guest—she’s not wearing the typical red shirt and black slacks like the other staff. Instead, she’s dressed in a plain black long-sleeve dress with a plunging neckline. Her “girls” look ready to make a break for it.

"What can I get you, sir?" she asks.

Paul flashes her a charming smile. "You are a vision, ma chérie. Do you have Louis Jadot in stock?"

The bartender nods. "Yes, sir, we have the 2020."

Paul nods with enthusiasm. "Two glasses, please."

Oh. He’s ordering for me too? I can roll with that.

"You got it," the bartender says, moving to fetch the wine.

"{This brand is from your hometown,}" Paul remarks, turning back to me.

I smirk. "{Thank you for thinking of me. I would’ve just asked for red wine.}"

Paul lets out a small laugh. "{You seem like an easy-going woman.}"

Have I been coming off that way? For a moment, it’s like I forget I’m not home. Like I’m back in my own world, surrounded by people who speak in riddles but don’t care if I lie. My expression must shift, because Paul’s brow pulls ever so slightly.

"{I’ve said something wrong. Forgive me,}" he says, his eyes searching mine for any signs of fault.

I glance down, just as the bartender returns with a dark bottle in her hands.

Pop.

I look up at Paul and shake my head. "You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t upset me."

Paul nods, though he still looks unsure. The bartender pours two glasses of wine and slides them over. Without missing a beat, Paul pulls a $100 bill from his pocket and drops it in the tip jar like he’s done this a hundred times.

"Thank you, sir," the bartender says, smiling.

Paul picks up his glass, giving it a practiced swirl before raising it toward me. "{To France,}" he says, all warm teeth and national pride.

He’s really riding this “French connection” hard, huh?

I pick up my glass. "{To the French,}” lightly tapping the base of my glass against his. Paul looks… genuinely impressed. I can’t tell if he’s faking it or if I just won a secret etiquette challenge.

"{You even tap your glass correctly. How old are you?}" he asks, curious now, like he’s just spotted something interesting behind the museum glass.

Easily impressed. Noted.

"{A lady never tells," I say, taking a slow sip of the wine. Paul follows suit.

"{Not an seasoned lady, but a young one like yourself shouldn’t feel like she has to hide her age.}" He studies me again, head tilted slightly. "{You must be… twenty-one?}" he guesses.

I wish. Being stuck in this young body has its annoyances. Like not being able to legally buy my own booze. Still—this body is sturdy, my lower back don’t ache, and I can survive off vending machine food. Small blessings.

"{How did you know?}" I ask, more amused than surprised.
Not like anyone’s checking IDs. Must be one of the perks of this family-and-friends circle.

"{You drink and have a baby face,}" Paul reasons. "{So you must be at least twenty-one.}"
Close enough.

"{Excellent logic,}" I reply.

Paul grins. "You flatter me." Then his gaze shifts past me, his face lighting up with recognition. "{Ah, Erwin! How have you been?}"

I freeze. My fingers tighten around the wine glass so hard I half-expect it to shatter in my hand.
FUCK.

Of fucking course.

I turn, and there he is—Erwin. The living reminder of everything I’ve been trying to pretend doesn’t exist tonight.

He nods, his smile polite and practiced. "It’s good to see you, Paul. I can’t say I’ve had any complaints."

Paul beams. "No, it’s truly good to see you, my friend." Then he gestures between us. "Ah—I’ve forgotten myself. Erwin, have you met Elena?"

Erwin’s brow lifts slightly. He repeats my name, slow and deliberate, as if tasting each syllable.
“Elena,” he says again, as if he’s just heard a good joke and is deciding whether or not to laugh.

Of course. He’s never heard my real name—just that obnoxious placeholder, 'Y/N.'

"No, I can’t say that I have," Erwin says, extending a hand toward me.

‘Of course he’s not going to call me out.’

I steady myself, take a slow breath. Somehow, my hand doesn’t shake as I place it in his.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you," I say with a practiced smile.

His handshake lingers a bit too long, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand in a way that makes my skin crawl. I pull my hand away, reaching for my wine that sits atop the bar counter.

Paul fills in the silence with ease. "This young lady and I hail from the same country."

Erwin raises a brow and gives me that infuriating smile. "So, you’re French?" It sounds too put together.  Too much like Carly when she’s playing both sides of society. Except there is no delusion of camaraderie here.

"I am," I assert calmly, matching his gaze. "Born and raised, briefly."

‘I still can’t figure out why he’s here.’

Erwin’s eyes narrow slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Why briefly? If you don’t mind me asking."

The bartender reappears. "Can I get you something, sir?" she asks.

Erwin glances at her, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. "Scotch, neat, please."

As she prepares his drink, I respond. "My family moved to America," I say, keeping my tone light.

Paul clicks his tongue. "{What a shame to leave France so young.}"

Erwin tilts his head slightly. “How old were you when you left?”

Before I can answer, Paul interjects brightly in French. "{It’s a miracle you retained the language so well."

It’s not that I want this balding man to shut up… but it’s getting close.

I force a smile. “Nine. But it’s all just a distant memory now.”

Real fucking distant.

The bartender sets Erwin’s scotch in front of him. He pulls a folded bill from his pocket and hands it off without breaking eye contact. She thanks him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. His eyes are still locked on me, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve always enjoyed the sound of French,” he says.

Paul beams. “As you should! It’s the most beautiful language in the world.”

I glance at him, grateful for the distraction. “I’d say it’s the second most beautiful.”

Arabic sounds like someone’s pouring silk into both ears. Like poetry. Too bad it’s too complex to learn.

Paul clutches his chest theatrically. “No! You can’t betray me like this, Elena!”

I laugh. “Don’t worry, Paul. French will always be number one in my heart.”

Erwin raises his glass to his lips, takes a slow sip. “Then would you do me the honor,” he says, low and smooth, “of letting me hear your French?”

And there it is. A request dressed like a compliment but loaded like a whip trap. Just waiting for me to make the wrong move and slash me across my back.

‘Too bad I’m no fraud.’

But the gull. The FUCKING audacity of this man. I should refuse, just to spite him. But Paul jumps in, nodding vigorously. "Her accent is exquisite!"

Erwin’s eyes glint with challenge. "Now I’m truly excited. Please, 'Elena,' let me hear it. I’ve always wanted to learn French myself, but work keeps me busy."

The way he says my name feels like an accusation—a direct challenge. Fine. I’ll give him what he wants.

I tuck my hair behind my ear. "What would you like to hear?" I ask.

Erwin smiles, taking his time as if pondering deeply. "Do you know any quotes? Maybe from…" He pauses; his eyes gleaming with mischief.  "Have you read White Nights?"

My smile stiffens. Of course, he’d bring up my favorite book, a book he knows is dear to me.

"I can’t  say I’ve read that one," I lie smoothly.

Paul nods. "It’s a good book—drags on a bit, but I suppose that’s apart of its charm."

Erwin looks amused. "You think so? I recently ran into an old friend’s daughter who called Dostoevsky, 'a preachy bastard who spends too much time whining instead of getting to the point.'"

My hand twitches around my wine glass.

Paul bursts into laughter while I resist the urge to toss my wine in Erwin’s face.

"She sounds like a woman who can’t stand a man wasting her time," I say, keeping my tight smile in place.

"That she does," Erwin replies, his gaze holding something I can’t quite decipher. But it damn sure didn’t feel warm or safe.

I ignored it, holding out my hand to Paul. "{Monsieur Paul, pourriez-vous m’aider à descendre, s’il vous plaît?}"

Paul immediately stands and takes my hand. "{Bien sûr, ma douce, tout pour toi.}"

With his help, I get down from the barstool, landing semi-gracefully.

"{Thank you, Paul," I say warmly.

"No need for thanks," Paul says, his smile genuine. "I am a gentleman."

"And I’m a lady. And ladies say thank you," I replied.

Paul laughs. "That’s very true."

I turned to face Erwin, expecting him to be caught off guard. Instead, he’s looking at me like I impressed him. As if he had not thought I’d follow through.

‘Ha. Show’s what you know.’

"It was nice meeting you, Erwin," I say, my voice clipped.

"Likewise," he responds smoothly as butter.

Paul calls out, " Don’t forget your wine!"

I  had almost forgotten my fucking drink. "Thank you, Paul." I grab the glass, giving him a parting smile before making my way back toward Carly who’s still chatting with Alanis. The other two women having departed while I’d been restraining myself.

Alanis lit up when she saw me return. “Welcome back.”

Carly turned slightly at the sound of my footsteps. I let out a quiet sigh of relief, only for her eyes to flick toward the bar and narrow.

“Jesus Christ. Again?” she muttered.

“Hey to you too,” I said, dryly.

Carly didn’t bother looking at me. “That guy is persistent, huh?”

Alanis snorted. “Paul? I’m pretty sure he’s microdosing.”

I fucking knew he was holding.

“He’s apparently best buds with uh- Paul,” I added, keeping my voice light even as my pulse hadn’t quite settled.

Carly made a sound of disgust. “Not surprising. We’re all connected by one thread called Elliot.”

Her tone was clipped—enough to make me glance at her, brows drawing in slightly.

“You seem irritated,” I said.

She shot me a look. “You’ll know when I’m irritated.”

Before I could respond, Alanis cut in with a grin. “Mom’s going around telling everyone that Carly’s friend is a artist from Paris.”

‘I’ve never been to Paris.’

I blinked. “That’s… a bit dramatic.”

Carly, arms folded and her champagne flute now empty, didn’t argue.

“You draw people in the park,” she said flatly. “That makes you an artist.”

“They’re caricatures at best,” I replied.

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Just—if someone asks for a commission, don’t say five dollars.”

Alanis gave a sage nod. “It’ll make you too easy if you do.”

Easy? What the fuck does that mean?

I raised a brow. “Easy?”

Carly shot Alanis a look—annoyed, fleeting, gone in an instant. Her voice stayed neutral.

“She means they’ll think you’re low-value. Maybe even free.”

“Huh.” I blinked. “That’s not weird at—”

a chime rings out above us. Sounding like an elegant bell that bellows out after it catches everyone’s attention.

A smooth voice followed over the intercom:
“Dinner will now be served. Please take your seats.”

People start shuffling over to the tables; heels clicking against the polished wood. The background sounds of everyone talking starts to mellow.

Carly sighed and turned to Alanis.

“Where are you sitting?”

Alanis tilted her head toward a table by the windows. “Right next door to the captain’s table.”

Carly looked at me, a small smile playing at her lips. “Let’s go sit, Artist.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” I said, already moving. “You did promise free food.”

The dining area glowed under golden lights, reflections of the sea winking off the windows like sequins. White linen, polished silver, and glass so fine it practically whispered when touched. Carly led me toward the captain’s table with her head high, shoulders squared—commanding. Her pristine image only cracking when the name card that next to hers, the one that should’ve said Elena—or at the very least Carly Stratmann: Guest—instead read: Charles Featherstonehaugh..

Elliot was already seated, surrounded by men in sharp suits. A table of power, no doubt; power that was none of my business. Each one more forgettable than the last—until my eyes snagged on a familiar profile across the room.

Levi.

He sat at another table with Erwin and a handful of women who swooned at him like he wasn’t an expert on tying someone up in a way that was both decorative and restrictive, casually leaned back like a man allergic to posture. But something was off.

He was taller.

No—he  was TALL. TOO TALL. He had always been a short, dense, tightly coiled spring. But now…

He stood up, saying something I was too far away to even hope to overhear, before stepping away, disappearing up the staircase.

Before I could process it, Carly’s voice sliced in, quiet but heated.

"You didn’t prepare a seat for her?" she was saying to Elliot. Her mouth smiled, but her tone could have frozen the ocean.

Elliot gave a sheepish shrug, like a man apologizing for dropping a paperclip, not deliberately snubbing someone. “I assumed your guest would fall through again. As usual.”

Carly's brows rose slowly. “She’s here. I told you she was here.”

“Yes, but—there are already twelve at the table. She’ll be more comfortable at another table.”

“I introduced her to you an hour ago,” Carly said pointedly, her voice still honeyed but tinged with steel. “Move someone.”

“Who?” Elliot asked, as if this were an unsolvable math problem.

Carly didn’t hesitate. “Move the British influencer. He’s not sitting yet. He can take selfies with the champagne tower like he did last year. And the year before that.

A pause. One of the men at the table stifled a laugh. Elliot’s mouth twitched, but he waved over a woman with a clipboard and a chignon so tight it could carve marble. “Fine,” he said coolly. “Majken, make an adjustment to the seating.”

Just like that, the woman with the clipboard plucked up Charles Featherstonehaugh’s placement card and relocated it to a table mid-room, conveniently near the champagne tower.

Carly turned to me with a small, satisfied smile. “The food is going to be great.”

A server pulls back my chair. I sit and Carly follows.

I nodded, heart still pounding like it was in the chest of someone who was running from her life and not about to eat a 5-course meal. Not from the confrontation.

From Levi and his upgrade. Why?

Why was he tall?

The dinner unfolded in waves. Waves that I willingly drowned myself in. Butternut Squash Velouté in a demitasse cup, with a single roasted pumpkin seed.

A Frisée Salad with persimmon slices, candied walnuts, shaved manchego, and a champagne vinaigrette on a plate bigger than my face

Sous-Vide Turkey Roulade stuffed with wild mushrooms and chestnut mousse, served with a port wine reduction. With a single glazed baby carrot, a halved Brussel sprout seared to hell, and a single roasted pearl onion that looked more like art than food.

Wild Mushroom & Brioche Stuffing Terrine that’s layered like a pâté tower with a surgical hand, loaded with mushrooms, caramelized onions, roasted garlic, and flecks of black truffle. Baked in duck fat and drizzled with sage brown butter. And topped with some green garnish I couldn’t identify.

 The conversations that took place as each was set in front of us were a blur. Carly chatted easily, lifting her wine like it was all perfectly normal. I chewed and nodded and smiled at nothing. Carly didn’t seem to mind I only contributed with short easy responses.

“Mmhmm”

“It’s good.”

“I don’t think so.”

I ate slow, trying to fill my mind only with the taste of the overly decadent meals that were announced as the servers sat them in front of me and filled my glass with the wine pairing that it came with.

Honestly, my appetite had all but disappeared when I saw Levi from across the room. I had only been eating to dull my panic. To function as if all were well. But by the time the fourth course was announced, I was way too full to eat a single bit extra sadiddy stuffing.

I rose from my seat. “I’m gonna get some air,” I said to only Carly. She gave me a hesitant glance, but nodded, not trying to stop me. She gave me a hesitant glance, but nodded, didn’t try to stop me. The men at the table were too deep into a conversation about tariffs to notice I existed.

Slipping away, I found myself at the bow of the ship. Relieved, I sighed. Finally, a moment to myself. If I knew how to swim, I might’ve jumped off and made for shore—but I’ve had my fair share of near-drownings across more than two lifetimes. I inhaled the sea air and clutched the wrap tighter around myself. The boat—or yacht, as Carly would correct—had heaters humming along the rails, keeping it from feeling like the true 49 degrees it actually was. I’d guess it felt like seventy-ish, but I’m no thermostat. I took a sip of the bitter wine in my glass. It didn’t have to taste good, even though it did. It just had to serve its purpose. I closed my eyes and listened to the waves crashing against the bow. Soothing. Calming. Almost peaceful.

“Don’t you clean up nice?”
The voice cuts through the calm, slicing straight through my moment of solitude. I open my eyes slowly and turn toward it.
I blink. Then squint.

Clean-shaven. Close-cropped hair. Smooth face like a fresh recruit. Burgundy shirt, black slacks—he’s dressed like one of the servers, but something tells me he’s not working a damn thing.

‘Benji. ‘

He steps closer, casual like he belongs here, like he didn’t just crash my peace.
“Looks like you really moved yourself up in the world, huh, princess?”
His tone drips with bitterness, sharp with something sour and old. He leans back against the railing, close enough I can smell the ganja clinging to his clothes.

I narrow my eyes. “I almost didn’t recognize you without that rat tail and peach fuzz on your face. “

Benji snorts. “You gotta real smart mouth for a guest.”

I roll my eyes, lifting my nearly empty glass to my mouth. “Last I checked I wasn’t your guest” I counter. I took another sip.

“You’re not my guest, but you’re my daddy’s guest.”

He states smugly. “So, show some respect.”

His daddy?
His daddy?

“Holy shit.” I mutter; dots I had zero stake in connecting like the stars in Orion’s belt before my eyes. “You’re Carly’s brother.” I state my realization aloud.

That explains why all their eyes look the same.

Benji gives me a surprised look, before letting out a humorless laugh. “Half. I’m not surprised that bitch didn’t tell you. “He pulls a blunt out of his pocket and a lighter and puts it to his mouth, lighting it and taking a long drag. I inhale the aroma, sharp and pungent.

This asshole.

 “Carly told me not to bring any of that here,” I say, tone pointed, implying he’s just as out of line as I’d be.

He exhales a slow cloud of smoke in my direction, then gives me a look like I’m the one who said something dumb.

“And you listened like a good puppy,” he jeers, voice thick with contempt.

I sigh. This I bullshit. I don’t need this shit from him or anyone, I’ll take my chances with running into Erwin and Levi. It’s not like he can do anything on the open sea. Before I can get more than two steps away, Benji’s outstretched hand offers me the lit joint. I stare at it, suspicious of the offering. He waves his hand again, beckoning me to take it.

I stop, stare at it. Suspicion crawling up my spine like a second shadow.

He waves it again, slow and coaxing.

“Come on, Princess,” he says, like it’s a dare.

“I already took out the camera’s princess.” He offers, trying to put me at ease.

Cameras?

I glance around my surroundings, sure enough there are cameras placed strategically along the railings, and the mast. I take it from him and put it to my lips, inhaling deeply before coughing. Benji smirks. “Carly said you were a smoker. Guess she’s a liar.”

I catch my breath. “She didn’t lie. I just use a pipe.” The world softens as the hit settles in—edges blur, thoughts slow, everything feels... quieter.

Benji nod. “A pipe girl” I shrug, taking a smaller inhale before blowing out smoke in the other direction. “More or less. A bowl is better.”

“Yea, but then you’re stuck with the evidence.” He points out. I hand him back his joint and he takes in and repeats his inhaling. I’m not typically one for traveling without my bong or pipe. It stays in the van, and I stay nearby the van if I’m not in it. Feeling more at ease from the friendly gesture, or maybe that’s just the pot talking. Though there was one thing bothering me.

“Why’d-um, why’d you take out the cameras?” I ask curiously. Benji drops what’s left of the blunt onto the deck and crushes it under his shoe. “Didn’t need video of me sneaking aboard.”

I scrunch my nose.

Sneaking on?

One would only need to sneak if they weren’t invited.

Fucking dirt bag—your family didn’t even invite you to Thanksgiving.

I giggle before I can stop myself. Loud enough to make him turn.

“What’s funny?” he asks, voice taut with irritation.

I stop laughing. “Nothing,” I say, keeping my tone breezy. No need to rock the boat. No pun intended.

Benji leans closer. “Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he says. “I wanna laugh. Tell me the joke, Princess.”

I frown. “Stop calling me that.”

Benji smirks, “Why not? It’s a real rags to riches tale for you. Bet when you were buying your pills you didn’t think you’d end up here with the big wigs. You’re Cinderella. You just needed your Fairy to dust you off and make you look like you were worth something.” He taunts.

 I let out a laugh. No giggle in sight. Dry. Dismissive.

“I mean… if that’s how you wanna see it.”
I didn’t owe this ass a damn thing. Not my past, not my pride, and sure as hell not a justification.

“How I wanna see it?”

He takes a step closer.

“You wanna know what I see? I see an opportunist cunt who knows how to climb her way out the dirt.”

He reaches for my hair, twirling a lock of it between his fingers. He leans his face down towards mine, as if expecting me to run away, but I hold steady. “How far up Carly’s snatch did you have to lick for her to invite you here?”

I slap his hand away. “Your jealously super sad “I point out.

He laughs, corners of his eyes crinkling in earnest. “Why would I be jealous of a homeless bitch like you?”

I must have looked taken aback because his smile widened.

 “I’ve seen you,” he purrs. “Spending hours at that dumpy little gym. Loitering at the library. But I’ve never seen you go home. “The aura of superiority radiating off him like the elephant shit smell at the circus. I couldn’t give a shit how he knew, or even that he knew at all.

I’m collecting stalkers like Pokémon cards at this point.

“Oh, bless your heart,” I say sweetly. “I didn’t mean me, sweetheart.”

His smirk falters.

“You’re jealous of your sister.”

And just like that—boom. His whole smug expression drops like a ton of bricks.

I meet his eyes with a smile that’s all teeth and no kindness.

“You call him Daddy like you aren’t a grown ass man, but he didn’t even invite you to his grand event.” I let the humor drip into my voice. “It’s Thanksgiving,—a day for family. And you had to sneak in.”

I step a little closer, eyes still locked on his.

“I’ve known Carly for maybe ten minutes before today. You? Maybe three. But anyone with half a brain can see who the golden child is. Carly’s the brains. So what does that make you?”

I tilt my head, fake-thoughtful, and let out a soft, theatrical exhale—like I’ve finally figured it out.

“Oh I know! Maybe... you’re the taint.”

His expression curdles. Good.

“Aren’t you embarrassed?” I ask, my voice light, amused. “If it wasn’t so funny, I’d feel bad for you.”

Benji straightens out, no longer inches away from my face. Towering over me, but there’s no fear inside me, only excitement. I put this shit stain in his place. Maybe he’ll cry.

Benji looks down at me.

“Aren’t you smart.” He says neutrally. My smile falters a bit.

‘Hurry up and cry little bitch.’

He nods his head while reaching into his pocket. “She might be the ‘Golden Child’ for now, but now I know how she makes her shit. And once Ms. Perfect’s out the picture, I’ll be the only one to keep this business afloat.” He says ominously.

“You can lick my taint after. I bet you’re real fucking good at it.” He pulls the silver pocket knife he threatened me with before from his pocket. The hanging lights flicker off its metal bite “If you wanna keep living this good life, I guess it’s my dick you’ll have to keep happy. And when I’m done with the three fuck holes you were born with, I’ll carve you out a fourth.”  He threatens with a smirk on his face.

I grimaced. He’s more Disney villain than a serious threat; over the damn top and trying way too hard—but that knife is real. That grip on reality, less so.

“I’d rather eat dog shit that think about your cock.”

Benji laughs like I told the funniest joke of the night, “Don’t worry, you can that too.” He grabs my arm suddenly, yanking me around and slamming my stomach into the railing. I yelp as my skirt rides up, cold air biting at my thighs, his hands right behind it. The shawl slips from my shoulders and crumples to the deck.

Fuck off.

I swing my empty wine glass at his face—hard. It shatters on impact, glass scattering like rain. He releases me with a strangled grunt, clutching his neck as blood spills between his fingers.

“You… bitch,” he gasps, staggering.

He swings wildly, knife flashing. I throw my hands up to block—burning pain rips through my palm as the blade slices me.

But I shove him. Hard.

Benji stumbles, teetering—then falls backward over the railing, vanishing into the black sea with a splash.

Panting, I grip the railing with my bleeding hand and stare down into the water below.

“Oh fuck.”

Oh Fuck,

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

I glance down at the deck. Blood. Glass. The sting in my right palm fades into the background, overtaken by the sight of bright droplets on the railing.

I snap my gaze up toward the upper deck. No movement. No lights. Nothing.

Calm down. The cameras aren’t even on.

My breath comes in short, shallow bursts, adrenaline sprinting through me like it’s racing the clock.

“You’re okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re okay.”

‘He’s not even a real person. His life doesn’t matter.’

That’s right. It was either me or him. Why wouldn’t I pick me? Over some character I don’t even remember.

The black shawl catches my eye, still crumpled where it fell. I drop to my knees and grab it and wipe at the blood with my black shawl, using my good hand. It’s clumsy and slow, especially with the sting climbing up my wrist, but the blood’s still fresh—hadn’t had time to stick. Not yet. I kick the broken glass toward the edge and sweep it off with one quick motion. The last bit—what’s left of the blunt and ash—I nudge over too, watching the pieces vanish into the dark water rushing water.

I scan the railing. The cameras are still dead. Thanks, Benji. You did one thing right.

“No jail for me,” I mutter.

When the scene looks less like a crime scene and more like nothing happened, I stand. I toss the bloodied shawl over the railing after Benji. It floats for half a second, then dips and disappears.

I check my hand—it's not deep. It won’t even need stitches. The bleeding’s already slowing.

I take one last breath and turn toward the grand hall.

I turn toward the grand hall—and run smack into someone.

Cream-colored jumpsuit. Long lashes. Carly.

“Elena! You were gone for so long and-“she says, relief flashing across her face—then shifting fast into a frown. Her nose crinkles. “You brought weed?”

Shit. The smell. I forgot about the smell.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Told you I didn’t even wanna come.”

A deflection that holds some truth is still a deflection.

Carly opens her mouth, but her eyes catch on my hand. They go wide. “You’re... you’re bleeding.”

I raise it halfway, letting her see the dried blood crusted across my palm and dripping down the back of my hand. “I tripped. Broke my wine glass,” I lie easily. “My bad.”

I’ve been apologizing a lot lately.

“Who cares about the glass?” she says, her voice shaky. “You probably need stitches.”

She looks me over, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t need stitches,” I say quickly. “It’s just a long scratch. Look—it’s not even bleeding anymore.”

I turn my palm upward like I’m showing off a magic trick.

Carly doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she pulls off her own shawl and wraps it around my hand without hesitation.

Needless. But sweet.

“Come on,” she mutters. “There’s gotta be a first aid kit somewhere. You really are hopeless, I swear.”

She leads me to a quieter part of the yacht—a neat, compact bedroom untouched by the party's chaos. I sit on the edge of the dark blue bedspread while Carly rifles through the dresser drawers. Most are empty, until the last one reveals a basic white first aid kit. She sets it between us, unwrapping the shawl from my hand.

“Not that I’m not having the best time,” I say, sarcasm light, “but how long until we hit shore?”

Carly opens the kit and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Practical. Can’t blame her—better safe than sorry.

“We started turning around about twenty minutes ago,” she says. “Not long after the last course, which you missed, by the way.”

I hum, noncommittal, as she dabs antiseptic over my hand.

“Another ten minutes, tops. A lot of people will probably stick around, but I’m tired. I wanna go home. Catch up on Love After Lockup.”

I snort. “That’s a trashy TV show.”

“Trashy reality shows are the best,” she says simply. “Wanna watch with me? We can pick up Thai on the way.”

“Don’t you wanna spend time with your man?”

She shrugs as she tapes an unnecessarily thick bandage over the cut. “We hang out all the time. It can be like a sleepover. I have a spare bed—it’s a Purple Premier and it’s just collecting dust in the apartment next door.

I blink. “The one that you keep all your clothes in?”

“No, the one adjacent to my main one.”

I frown, tired and genuinely baffled. “Carly. Why do you have three apartments?”

“I don’t have three apartments,” she replies breezily.

“But you just said—”

“I have five. I just don’t want people living right next to me.”

I stare at her. “You did say you had the whole floor to yourself, but... I guess I thought you were exaggerating.”

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p.’

I close my eyes. “I just wanna take a shower.”

“You can shower or take a bath in one of the spares, if you want.”

Why does she want so much damn company?

“You got bath salts?”

She smiles. “Of course I do.”

And just like that, the night was over.

No one confronted me about what I’d done. No sirens. No screams. No sudden spotlight.

I left that crime scene and didn’t look back.

Unaware... there were two witnesses to my crime.