Content Warnings:

  SpoilerGender dysphoria.

  [colpse]VII. WayfarerI can feel the eyes on me as I slither to my desk - five minutes te, tired-eyed, and wearing the most aggressive case of resting bitch face that’s ever graced this open-pn hell. The pce is packed, cttering keyboards surrounding me like a swarm of mechanical insects. I wish I’d stayed in bed. George would have made a fuss, sure, but I don’t think I have a single performance left in me today.

  My dreams were full of Margaret - except not the Margaret I know. Not the one who let me cry on her shoulder, who hugged me when I was scared. The one who welcomed me into a circle of smiling bigots with open arms and told me I had "potential." I can’t stop seeing her face, animated by all the same muscles and twitches and light, and yet so utterly unfamiliar. It makes my skin feel too tight. I’d scream if I had to look her in the eye.

  But it’s not just Margaret on my mind. Sadie is clearly struggling to pretend everything’s fine. I’ve caught her turning to look at me four times already - each time with a nervous twitch of her mouth, like the words are bubbling up but can’t quite find their way out. She wants to apologise. I can see that. She wants to say she didn’t mean it, that she didn’t mean to erase me in front of Graham to save her own skin. One day, I might have to decide whether or not I forgive her - but for now, she can’t find the words.

  MargaretC: Got something to share re: yesterday’s discussion! Come see me when you get the chance

  The Bckline message blinks at me like a threat, and for a second I forget how to breathe. She means the memory discussion, I tell myself. Not the secret meeting. Not the betrayal. She means the stuff with the photograph, with the lost hours - nothing more.

  And yet, my heart is thundering in my chest, and I feel fucking gross.

  I stare at the message. Do I go down now? Pretend everything’s fine? Look into her face - the one that wore kindness like a second skin - and not scream?

  No. Not yet. I buy myself time.

  Maisie: Thank you!! I’m behind on graphs rn, but I’ll be down in a few hours (:

  After sending, I question if the smiley face was too much. But I shake my head. There’s no reason to panic. Margaret doesn’t suspect anything. I’m just Maisie to her. Just her innocent, alien colleague.

  And if she does catch me? So what? Nobody ever told me I couldn’t impersonate a TERF if it helped with an Interstitial investigation. But the reality isn’t that simple. If Margaret decides I’m the enemy, that will be the end of me. Graham’s just waiting for someone to give him an excuse to close my door again.

  I stare at my screen. Try to work. Try to breathe.

  I’d give anything to be back in that in-between space - somewhere between Sadie and Margaret - sweaty and giggling in Lexi’s arms, in that arcade. That moment felt like a loophole in the universe. And everything since has just been the audit.

  With any luck, there’ll be a major incident today. Something big. Something dramatic. Something that gives me an excuse not to go down into that b and pretend that everything is still okay.

  Because I am so fucking tired of pretending.

  No such luck.

  After an hour of boring graphs and zero crises, I head down to Lab R, holding my breath for the entire walk. What if Margaret has figured me out and this is a trap? It’s a stupid line of thinking, and I know it, but the tension in my chest isn’t going anywhere. My legs feel leaden. My throat tastes like metal.

  The b smells more chemical than usual - sharp, acrid, like bleach and cold metal. It bites at the inside of my nose. Margaret seems to command a rger presence than she ever has, sitting tall on her stool like she’s grown three feet in my imagination. Edgar stands in the corner, loading samples into a machine. He doesn’t look up when I enter. I don’t think he’s paying attention. I don’t think he ever is. He’s just... there.

  Margaret turns to me and raises her hands in celebration, smiling so broadly that - for a second - I almost forget what she is. My lips try to mirror the expression, but the effort feels brittle. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

  "So, do you want the good news first, or the bad news?" she asks, leaning forward slightly, elbows perched on her knees.

  "The bad news."

  She tuts. "It only really works if you ask for the good news first."

  I roll my eyes in a way that I hope reads as pyful. "Fine. What’s the good news?"

  "I’ve found research!" she says, flicking through tabs until a familiar document pops onto the screen. "Turns out, we developed a drug for this ages ago. Back in the nineties, in fact! Recuvia. Apparently very useful when you’re trying to recall memories that have been artificially suppressed."

  "Okay." I nod slowly. That actually sounds... promising. Too promising. "So, let me guess - we don’t have any?"

  "Not quite," she says, smile still pinned in pce, though it falters at the edges. "I can get my hands on some easily. It’s still avaible over the researcher intranet. However-" she inhales "-I’m not sure it’s right for you, Maisie."

  My name in her mouth sounds like a comfort I don’t deserve. It hits somewhere deep in my chest - like it always used to - but now it’s tainted. Like hearing it through a wall at the wrong time. I frown. "How do you mean?"

  She lets out a slow, frustrated breath. "From what I’ve read, a lot of people who take it have... very bad experiences. It doesn’t target specific memories. It unlocks them all. The ones that have been artificially suppressed... and the ones that the taker is actively suppressing."

  "I don’t understand, Margaret."

  But I do.

  The air in the b thickens until I can barely breathe. My skin prickles under my sleeves. I know exactly what she’s talking about - and I feel the threat of those memories trying to rise already. Containment. Cold floors. Metal tables. Questions that were too clinical, too constant. Pain that didn’t always come with an expnation. I don’t want to see any of that again, not in full colour and unskippable detail.

  "It means that all of the worst things that have ever happened to you, the things that you work so hard to forget about, because thinking about them too hard will break you - they’ll all come surfacing back at once. Not just that, but they’ll feel stronger. Like you’re actively reliving them," she says, talking straight, in scientist-mode, but with empathetic eyes that make it worse, somehow. She’s thinking what I’m thinking. Wendy. The way her name alone makes my body still.

  I go numb. I hold my breath. Just the idea of re-experiencing those memories - trapped in my cell, body contorted under cold metal hands, losing her all over again - makes my head swim.

  "That would be awful for most people, Maisie," Margaret continues, "but your brain... It can physically change. That could even amplify the effects. I don’t know what this pill would do to you. I don’t think it’s a good idea."

  She’s not wrong. I want to understand what happened with Sadie - need to - but this? This feels like an invitation to die in technicolour. A chemical bullet to the brain. I don’t think I’d survive it.

  A deep sigh escapes my lips. "And that’s the only option?"

  "I can keep looking," she says, with a shrug, "but anything else is likely to be super experimental. Ultimately, Maisie, it’s your choice."

  I nod my head. "I don’t think I can do it, Mags. I think it’ll kill me."

  She gives a sad smile, and rests a hand on my shoulder.

  It feels suffocating. Her touch used to be a comfort, something maternal. Now it just presses down on me like expectation, like guilt.

  "I think you’re stronger than you feel, but I don’t disagree. The only thing I’m wondering is that, if I recall correctly, you weren’t alone when your memory was wiped. Would any other members of the team be willing to take the pill?"

  I’ve been very good at disguising my thoughts about Margaret, but I do a terrible job at hiding my reaction to that - my face boils with heat, turning a bright red, which she notices with curious eyes.

  "It’s, um, something kinda personal that I’m trying to remember," I say, as evenly as I can.

  "Well, now I’m just curious, Maisie."

  If I didn’t know who she really was, if I hadn’t seen her in that circle of folding chairs nodding along to the most vile things I’ve ever heard, I probably would tell her. Show her the picture. Let her analyse it like a riddle we could solve together. But now... I just smile.

  I shrug my shoulders and let out a forced, coy giggle. "Sorry, Mags. I’ve gotta keep this one to myself."

  "Well, let me know if you want me to order the pill. You can change your mind at any time."

  "Thanks, Margaret."

  I’m back at my desk, watching both graphs and the clock. I don’t have work tonight, but I do have an arrangement with Jamie. It feels like a lifetime since I st saw him, and then I have to remind myself that our time in the park together wasn’t the st time - I saw him as Cassie, getting him kicked out of the pub, making his crisis worse. God, I really can’t do anything right this week.

  My eyes flicker to the real-time charts - just for a second - and something spasms deep inside me.

  No. That can’t be right.

  I’ve seen all sorts of strange things on the charts - st week’s "coin in the washing machine" being up there. There’s always something weird that breaks trends and releases energy in a slightly different way, which leads to us learning more about RED and improving our techniques.

  Except what I’m looking at isn’t like that. I’m not seeing a strange distortion, or some unholy pattern. Because the graph in front of me isn’t a ripple, a burst, a spike. It’s a message. A word. And an emoticon.

  HELLO :)

  This is precision. Deliberate. Real energy patterns spelling out a friendly little note. My eyes dart around the room. Is someone watching me? Is this a prank?

  I start clicking - digging into the source data, trying to find a glitch or manipution. But everything checks out. These readings are genuine. Real RED energy. A location pings back - one of the parks north of the city centre. Whatever’s happening there, it’s not subtle.

  And then: "Maisie, can I speak with you?"

  I jolt. My hand slips off the mouse.

  George is behind me, gesturing toward the gss meeting room at the edge of the open floor. His voice is ft, but something about the urgency cuts through me like a scalpel. He’s not asking.

  "I’m kinda busy, George," I say, gncing back at the message on my screen. "I think something might be happening-"

  "It can wait," he says. Still calm. Still firm. "I need to speak with you."

  I hesitate, heart clenching. If this is what I think it is - if someone took the memory drug - if someone remembers what I did in Scotnd... Then that perky message might’ve been the st thing I’ll ever see on a screen before they throw me back into containment.

  I lock my computer and follow him.

  The door closes behind us with a quiet hiss. Soundproof. I hear nothing now - no keystrokes, no chatter - just the silence pressing in on all sides. The air in here is heavier somehow, more sterile than usual. The walls feel closer.

  Isotion.

  My body tenses automatically. My mind fshes - pain, cold, steel. The smell of bleach and rubber gloves. The absence of everything.

  "I’m worried about Jordan," George says, his sigh carrying more weight than usual. "She’s been very distant this week, and we had a bit of an argument over the train incident."

  I nod, rexing back into myself. This isn't about me. But, I already know where it's going.

  "I know. She doesn’t think it’s ethical that The Coalition is going to lock away an innocent child for the rest of their life."

  His jaw tightens, and I watch his face turn a slow, annoyed red. He clearly doesn’t appreciate the nguage I’ve chosen, but I’m not going to dress it up for his comfort.

  "No decision has been made on what to do with the child, Maisie," he says, slipping into manager-mode, like he’s reading off a minated card. "One of the Research teams is currently assessing the situation, to determine a risk level and-"

  "Like they did with me," I say, voice sharp with sarcasm. "When they assessed that I was a danger to the world."

  That hits him harder than he wants to show. He falters for a beat - then gives up on pushing back. Maybe he knows he can’t win this one. So he pivots, pressing on with whatever script he came in here with.

  "Anyway, the point is - I’m worried about her, Maisie. She’s a great member of the team, with a bright future ahead of her, but I’m concerned that she’s going to throw that all away and do something stupid. Something that she can’t come back from."

  I scoff and shake my head.

  "So, what? You want me to talk to her and tell her that actually The Coalition is great and she should just let them kidnap children?"

  He doesn’t respond. But his silence is loaded. And something shifts in his posture - like his skeleton is trying to retreat inside itself. He’s not nervous because I’m right. He's nervous because I'm almost right.

  "No, that’s not it - is it?" I say, watching him shrink, the energy rising in my voice like a surge. "Because why would you come to me and not Tommy or Sadie? You know she can’t be talked down, so you want to deceive her."

  "Maisie..." he mutters, but it’s too te. I can see every inch of him bracing for what I already know.

  "You want me to shift into that child and use me to convince her that everything’s okay. Don’t you?"

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The silence answers louder than words could. My stomach turns. Any scrap of respect I’ve ever had for this man is gone in an instant.

  "Maisie, I’m just looking out for the team," he says, quieter now, trying to look reasonable. His arms cross - not defensive, but shrinking. "I know she’s your friend, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to help her."

  "Fuck off, George."

  His eyes widen, startled by the crity of it.

  "She’s my friend," I continue, rising to my feet, my voice razor-sharp, "and that’s exactly why I’m not going to fucking lie to her. And if you gave a single shit, you’d be in Graham’s office right now begging for a compromise. Not here."

  He starts to say something - "Maisie, please" - but it’s too te. We're done here.

  I give him the sweetest smile I can manage and walk straight out of the meeting room.

  Jordan looks up as I approach, her face softening into a smile - real and warm, one of the few things in this pce that hasn’t turned sour yet.

  "Come on," I say, nodding toward the exit. "I’ve got something for us to investigate."

  I’m sat in the passenger seat of Jordan’s car as she drives us towards the park. It’s not far, but getting the car made sense. Something is sending a signal right now, and we don’t know how big of a threat it is. There’s no time to waste on public transport.

  I’ve already told her about the message - and about what George said. I’d decided the second I left the meeting room that I wasn’t going to keep that secret, and that I didn’t care if it upset my boss. He crossed a line - insulting me by treating me like a tool, and insulting Jordan by thinking she needed to be lied to. I’m not sure how she’s taking it. Her face had flickered with a lot of reactions as I spoke, but now, behind the wheel, she’s gone quiet again - cool, composed, the way she always is.

  When she finally speaks, her voice is calm but focused.

  "Are you sure this is a good idea for just the two of us? If something is maniputing our energy, then that sounds like it could be... quite bad, right?"

  I shrug.

  "I don’t know. This has never happened before. Until I see otherwise, I’m assuming it’s just something jamming our signal in an unusual way. Some kids in the park who’ve somehow managed to get their phones onto our network."

  It’s not a good theory. The tech is too advanced for amateurs, and I know that. My current best guess is some kind of disgruntled former employee - maybe someone who knows just enough to mess with our systems. I have no idea how we’d handle that if it’s true. All I know is that I needed to get out of the office - preferably with Jordan - and this gave me the perfect excuse. If it ends with both of us getting murdered in a park, I’ll take the L.

  Outside the window, the city rolls past in its usual greyness - drab fts, tight roads, bored-looking pedestrians - all so familiar, so normal. It feels ridiculous that anything strange might be waiting for us on the other end of this drive.

  "Are you okay?" I ask, realising betedly that I probably should’ve asked ten minutes ago.

  She gives a slight nod.

  "I’m a bit confused, not going to lie. I wasn’t... I wasn’t pnning on doing anything. There’s no need for George to get so involved."

  "I know, but you know what he’s like - he’s a loving parent with a limited toolset. Refuses to stand up to management. I don’t think I’ve heard him say one bad thing about The Coalition."

  She sighs and lets the car glide through an amber light.

  "Well, I’m grateful that you said no, Maisie. Thank you."

  "I did more than say no," I say, gncing sideways at her, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. "I told him to fuck off."

  She ughs - an honest one - and turns just enough to look at me in disbelief.

  "No, you didn’t!"

  "I absolutely did."

  She shakes her head and lets out a proper cackle.

  "God, I wish I was as brave as you."

  I freeze for a second - blinking as the words settle. Brave? No. It hits so wrong I almost ugh out loud. Me, brave? I want to tell her how wrong she is, how many chances I’ve had to do the right thing and bailed. But I just sit with it. I let it float in the space between us like steam off a coffee mug. She meant it kindly. She meant it genuinely. That’s what matters.

  But if I was truly brave, I would’ve told The Coalition to fuck off a long time ago.

  I was worried that it would take some time to identify the source of the disturbance. The park is big, and though quiet at this time, our source of discontent could be coming from anywhere - including the trees themselves. But we find the source quickly.

  The path winds open into a clearing, the park’s famous waterfall roaring gently to our left, feeding the river that threads through the whole space. Just beyond that, spanning the water, is a small bridge. And on that bridge stands a man.

  He’s in his mid-twenties, maybe, dressed like a sketch from someone’s fever dream. His angur bck head hosts a well-crafted yer of dark hair, and behind rectangur green-lensed gsses, he’s grinning like he knows something we don’t. A massive trench coat hangs off him, far too rge for his frame, partially obscuring a mud-stained grey T-shirt. Over his chest is slung a sash holding four gss orbs, each bubbling with a glowing lime-green liquid that casts pulses of light across his chest. His left arm is made of orange metal - intricate and obviously synthetic - with a tablet embedded where his forearm should be.

  The orbs, in particur, make me feel uneasy. They look unstable - improvised science mixed with something stranger. None of it sits right. Not the outfit, not the gleam in his eyes, and definitely not the way he starts waving at us, like we’re old friends arriving to a party.

  "Well?" I say to Jordan, as we stand at a distance, trying to keep my voice steady. "He seems friendly."

  "I have a taser in my back pocket," she replies with complete calm. "We’ll be fine."

  We move toward him, my limbs stiff, my body screaming with caution even as I try to look composed. His gaze drips over every part of me as we approach - too long and too direct - his interest obvious, objectifying. My skin crawls.

  "Well, I have to say," he calls out, grinning wide enough to show every tooth, "I’ve never had a response team look so adorable before. Usually I’m just happy when y’all don’t start shooting right away, but it really is a special day today, huh?"

  He pantomimes each word with his hands, like he’s performing for children. His accent’s hard to pce - sorta Australian, but dulled and drawling. Giddy. Obnoxiously so.

  I gnce sideways at Jordan again. She hasn’t blinked. She’s thinking the same thing that I am - that this is weird. Weird and misogynistic.

  "Who are you?" I ask, keeping my tone clipped and ft. "I’m assuming that was your message."

  Another wide, delighted grin. "It was! I found your technology, and while it’s kinda rudimentary - no offence - it’s not the worst I’ve seen. I like to leave a little message, y’know? Always nice to meet the protectors of the realm."

  "I can’t say that I do know," I reply coldly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  He lets out a theatrical sigh, still smiling - like this is all a bit of fun to him, like nothing matters.

  "Okay, fine," he says, rolling his eyes. "But you have to promise not to tell, okay? You and your ripped friend there."

  I blink at him, searching for any hint that he’s lying. If there are signs, I can’t read them - he looks human, but he’s too alien, impossible to see his tells.

  "So, what? You just travel through the Interstice for fun?"

  "That’s what you call the space between worlds, yeah?" he says, shrugging, nonchant. "Then, yeah. I travel through the Interstice for fun. It’s a vast universe, doll. So much to see."

  I stare at him in disbelief. He says it like he’s ticking countries off a backpacker’s bucket list. Does he have any idea what kinds of things bleed through the Interstice? What horrors climb out of it? I’ve seen them. He treats it like a tourist attraction.

  He keeps talking.

  "A lot of constants - in any civilised world, there’s usually something set up to detect other-worldly threats. Though, like I said-"

  "They’re not usually as adorable as us. I remember," I say ftly.

  He lifts his hands in mock surrender.

  "Didn’t mean nothing condescending by it, darling, don’t mistake me. I’m very scared of you two, especially that taser in her pocket."

  He nods toward Jordan, whose face flushes with irritation. She draws the taser slowly - not pointing it, yet - but making the threat pin.

  "Now, sweetheart, let’s skip the electric forepy, yeah?" he grins. "My hair will not look good if I fall into that river."

  "Stop calling me sweetheart," she snaps.

  "Okay, darling."

  I rub my temples. "You’re insufferable."

  He snaps his fingers, like we’re all in on a joke that only he finds funny.

  "Wouldn’t have it any other way, doll. Now, I’ve introduced myself, and y’all are being very rude keeping your own names a secret. Fancy sharing?"

  "I’m Jordan," she says, steel in her voice. "Field Operative for The Coalition, and you’re on thin ice, pal, because I’m not having a great day."

  "Pleasure to meet you, Jordan," he says, miming a little handshake in the air. Then his eyes turn to me.

  "Maisie," I say. Nothing else.

  He does the same mocking gesture, but there’s a twitch to his smile now - like he’s sizing us up and can’t quite decide if we’re prey or predators.

  "Okay," I say, my patience gone, "now let’s skip all this bullshit. Why are you here?"

  A hand to his chest. Offended. "I told you, Maisie! I’m just passing through."

  I take a step forward, posture still calm but every cell of me tightening. "I’ve had enough. Zap him, Jordan."

  Her face flickers with pleasure as she steps forward and raises the taser.

  "Wait!" His voice spikes - high and quick. "Okay, fine. You got me! I am just somebody who passes through. I promise I’m not a threat. I just... might’ve pissed someone off, okay? And I’m just looking for somewhere to lie low. Your world seemed nice."

  I raise an eyebrow. "If you’re trying to hide, why send a message to the so-called protectors of the realm?"

  His story doesn’t add up. This isn’t your silly little Marvel multiverse, where every world is a re-skin of the other. There isn’t a universe where the only difference is Jordan skipped breakfast. But there is a universe full of baby-eating Trowkin. And a universe inhabited by vampires and demons. Nothing you want to visit recreationally.

  He stares at me like I’m missing something obvious.

  "I needed a pce to stay. I don’t want to go freaking out the locals if I can help it. Rather bunk with one of the guys who already knows about all the weird shit."

  I snort. "Seriously?"

  "We’ve got plenty of accommodation," Jordan says, stepping closer. Her voice is low, deliberate. "In our containment facilities."

  He rubs his hands together and grins. "Is that a threat, cool cat?"

  I step forward again, sliding a hand over Jordan’s shoulder in case things turn violent. I start subtly thickening the muscle in my arms and legs - nothing visible yet, but I want to be ready.

  "You’re a danger to this world," Jordan says through gritted teeth.

  He just shrugs, like the whole thing bores him. "I mean, first of all, you’re wrong. I told you already, I’m not a threat. And second of all, none of your containment cells are going to work on me, sugar."

  "Oh yeah?" she says, shifting her grip.

  "Yeah," he says, tilting his head with an infuriating wink.

  In one flick of motion, he untches one of the gss vials from his sash and hurls it toward us.

  It cuts through the air - and then stops. Just stops.

  Mid-air. Suspended. Crackling with bright green light like a lightning storm contained in a jar.

  And then it explodes.

  A bolt of static energy leaps from the capsule, ripping through the space between us before either of us can move. I feel the hum before I feel the heat - a low vibration rolling through my chest - and then it hits.

  The world folds inward, like a curtain drawing shut. No thoughts, no memories, no sounds.

  Just darkness, settling around me like sleep.

  "Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauties!"

  I groan, instinctively raising a hand to block the too-bright sky, already burning its way into my retinas. There’s a thickness in my chest like I’ve just been hauled out of a ten-year coma. Heat pulses downward onto my face, dry and steady, and the terrain beneath me is soft but unnerving - sticky like wet sugar, and cold in a way sand shouldn’t be. We’re not in the park any more. We’re not in anywhere any more.

  I sit up, slowly, and it takes me a second to register the impossibility around us. Rolling dunes stretch endlessly in all directions - fine white powder beneath, a ft grey sky above, pulsing with ripples of lime green that shimmer like infected veins. Jordan is next to me, moving in sync, her hands bound like mine with rough rope. I give the bindings a gentle tug - tight, but no match for me if I decide to act.

  Across from us stands our cheerful little alien. Wayfarer. His smile hasn’t budged an inch, still pstered on like a child’s drawing of joy. My skin itches just looking at him.

  "You motherfucker," Jordan says, spitting onto the pale ground. "Untie my hands right now, or I’ll fucking kill you."

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her swear like that. Her face is flushed, muscles coiled like springs under her skin. There’s something almost destabilising about it - Jordan’s always been composed. Reliable. But right now, she’s raw fury.

  The good news? My hands are bound, yes - but it’s cosmetic. I could slip free with a twitch of my nerves, shrink my wrists, and be out in seconds. But I don’t. Not yet. Not until I know more about what we’re dealing with. He’s underestimated us - an advantage I don’t pn to waste.

  "Calm down, kitten," he says, palms up, that same unbearable tone dripping from every word. "I just want to talk without getting zapped, or threatened with captivity. You forced me into this, J-dog, don’t get mad at me."

  He grins. Jordan recoils at the nickname, and honestly, same.

  "Where are we?" I ask, adopting my best ‘curious prisoner’ voice.

  "Where do you think you are?"

  "I’m going to assume another reality," I say, watching the strange sky roll like water. "Presumably one that you’ve wandered through before, and knew that we’d be able to breathe in."

  "Smart girl." He nods and lifts a hand for a high five I am not able to give him.

  Jordan’s still twisting in her bindings, falling face-first into the powdery sand as she does. He makes a half-hearted move to help her up, only to recoil when she lunges for his fingers like she pns to bite them off.

  "Okay, so you mentioned that somebody’s chasing you? Who?" I ask, trying to hold the pacing steady, keep him talking. He’s scattered - too giddy to focus properly - but I get the sense that doesn’t make him harmless.

  He squints and winces like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. "Okay, I maybe, sorta, kinda stole something from some guys, and they might sorta, kinda, definitely be trying to find me. All I’m asking for is a pce to stay for a few days, ideally with two powerful girlbosses that will protect me from any attacker."

  "So you’re a thief? And you expect us to trust you? Why would we do that?" Jordan spits.

  He shrugs, and the movement sends the lime green vials on his chest sloshing with eerie light. "Well, I could’ve killed you already, couldn’t I, J-dog? Surely there’s no greater dispy of trust!"

  "You did kidnap us," I say ftly.

  He waves a hand like I’ve brought up something impolite at dinner. "And I’m going to let you go once we reach an agreement, M-dog!" He pauses. "No, that one doesn’t work as well. Jury’s still out on your nickname, Maisie, but don’t worry - we’ll get there soon!"

  Jordan shoots me a look - wide, disbelieving, and exhausted. We’ve seen things from other worlds far more dangerous than this man. But I don’t think either of us has ever seen anything more annoying. I wonder for a second if she sees the same alien in me that she sees in him. I hope not. I hope she never does.

  "How about a counter-offer?" I say, my voice sharp. He leans forward. "Fuck you, untie us, and I’ll do my best to stop Jordan killing you. How’s that?"

  He squints his eyes and makes an mm sound with his mouth. "See, Maisie, I’m going to have to-"

  And he doesn’t finish the sentence, because my hand is already wrapped around his throat, the ropes dangling loose in the sand beside me. I press him into the ground, my knees pinning him with a weight far greater than my frame should allow - because I’ve doubled their mass.

  There’s a snap of satisfaction in my chest, a tension broken, a line finally crossed. I’ve watched this man bounce and brag since we met, and now I’m watching him squirm.

  "I would’ve taken that one, if I were you," I say, steady, cool, kneeling over him. For the first time, he looks genuinely panicked.

  "How the..." His voice strains as his eyes flick to the ropes still knotted beside us. "You’re more wiry than you look, doll."

  "No, we stop the games now." I shift slightly, my muscles responding, adding even more pressure. He lets out a grunt of pain. The orbs hanging loosely at his side emit a soft hum as I unclip them and roll them across the powdery white sand to Jordan. She’s still tied, but grinning now - wide, feral, delighted.

  "What’s going to happen next is that, first of all, you’re going to tell us the truth. And second of all, you’re going to get us the fuck home. Tell me you heard that, wafer-man."

  He growls, straining beneath me, and I can feel the way the strange terrain clings to both of us, shifting subtly beneath my knees like it wants to drag us down.

  "You win, Mai-Mai. I was mostly telling the truth. I just want a pce to stay, because, like I said - I stole something-"

  "From who?"

  "From the equivalent of your silly little Coalition in another world. I needed something to power my orbs. Didn’t think I’d get caught."

  "Okay." I nod slowly, heat prickling at the back of my neck. "And so, you wanted to double-dip and steal from us, too."

  He winces. "Guilty as charged, ma’am! But you’ve foiled my most-esteemed pn. I’ll be a good boy from now on."

  "Somehow I doubt that."

  But before he can open his mouth again, the sky cracks - a jagged fsh of green light rips through the dull grey above us, sending an electric pulse through the air. I flinch, instincts roaring. My breath catches, heart pounding.

  "What was that?" I ask, my voice low, but the tension in my body rising fast.

  His face sinks, the st of his smugness draining away. "So, slight update," he says. "I think they might have found me."

  I turn my eyes to the sky. Five bck specks, falling fast - humanoid, but wrong. Their movements are precise. Calcuted. Not human enough. I feel the threat in my spine before I see them clearly.

  "Who are they?"

  "I told you already!" He’s finally panicking now, voice raised, desperate. "They call themselves Regutors, but they’re basically the same as your Coalition. Though these guys seem to be a bit further ahead in terms of reality travel, huh?"

  "What will they do if they catch you?"

  "The same thing you guys would do, I suppose," he mutters, still watching the sky.

  So, either lock him away forever or execute him. Fuck me.

  I don’t say anything, but my weight drops off him as I pull away, shrinking my limbs back to their usual size. I feel the sand grip around my boots like wet silk. Whatever world this is - it doesn’t want us to leave.

  I move fast to Jordan, fingers working the rope loose. The second her wrists are free, she’s on her feet, clutching the glowing orbs to her chest.

  "Get us home," I say to Wayfarer. "Now."

  He grimaces, brushing sand off his coat, gncing up at the falling shapes. "Slight problem there, babe. We need to travel about a half-hour north to get to the right jumping point."

  Of course we do. Fucking Yarn Theory bullshit. The figures are closing in - five bck-armoured things falling from the sky like bullets.

  "Well, this was a really dumb pn from you then, wasn’t it?" I wave my arms, letting the frustration pour out of me. I don’t know if I’m yelling at him or the sky.

  I don’t know if we can outrun whatever’s coming. But I do know I trust them as much as I trust The Coalition. Zero.

  "As far as I see it, there’s only one way out of this," Jordan says, stepping between us and the sky. Her stance is strong, jaw tight. "If these guys are Coalition-adjacent, then I can speak their nguage."

  They’re on top of us within five minutes, confirming what I'd quickly figured out: we never had a chance of running.

  Five of them surround us - each one broad-shouldered, wrapped in heavy bck body armour, their silhouettes almost mechanical against the strange green ripples of the sky. They raise gun-shaped devices I don’t recognise, sleek and alien. I wonder - absurdly - if they shoot sers, like in some half-remembered sci-fi movie.

  Adrenaline hits me like a gut punch. The humour of how fast this situation escated - the park, the bridge, the orbs - makes the fear all the more surreal. It’s almost funny. Almost.

  One of them steps forward. Grey stripes across his uniform mark him as the leader. When he removes his helmet, I feel my body flinch. He’s bald, with a face like parchment that’s been folded and unfolded too many times, worn into creases. And he feels familiar - not as a person, but as a type. A faceless enforcer, carved from the same bone-dry bureaucracy as The Coalition’s own nameless researchers and guards. It’s like seeing the ghost of my own past in another life, one that never ended.

  "Jordan Bke, Field Operative of the Coalition Against Interstitial Threats," Jordan says, stepping forward with her voice locked into 'work mode.' Her tone is crisp, even, practised - an immediate contrast to my own silence. I stay rooted behind her, afraid that speaking would throw everything into chaos.

  He’s almost two feet taller than her, an imposing figure even without the weapon. But she doesn’t blink. She stands the way I imagine they teach you to stand in basic training - firm, but not aggressive. It hits me, then, with a quiet pang: no matter how frustrated or disillusioned Jordan gets with The Coalition, she’s still one of them. She knows how to speak their nguage. I never did.

  His brow furrows as his eyes flick from her to me, then to Wayfarer, who’s trembling now - tiny spasms in his hands, jaw clenched tight. He’s no longer pying the part of the charming trickster. He’s just a scared man in a trench coat, and for once, it fits.

  He scowls, and replies in a gruff voice. "Mull-Two, Fourth Division Operative for the Inter-Reality Regutors. What is your business here, Miss Bke?"

  Jordan points directly at Wayfarer. Her arm doesn’t tremble.

  "This piece of dirt has been swiping our equipment for years. We chased him here to apprehend him, and have now learned that he’s been travelling to other worlds doing the exact same."

  There’s a sharp silence. Mull-Two’s face doesn’t change. I hold my breath.

  Then, without a word, Jordan pulls an ID card from her pocket and hands it over like she’s been doing this her whole life. Maybe she has. I don’t know what the hell she thinks that’s going to prove, but her expression is carved from stone, and I trust her. Jordan knows how to talk to these kinds of men. She’s one of them - or close enough to fake it.

  Mull-Two studies the card for a moment too long, and the back of my neck starts to sweat. Everything about this feels wrong. I half expect him to call for backup, or raise his weapon and bst us into radioactive particles. But he doesn’t. He hands the ID back with a nod.

  Mull-Two frowns. "He is from your world?"

  I hold my breath. But Jordan doesn’t flinch. Her voice stays calm, commanding.

  "Yes," she says, nodding. "We believe that to be the case."

  There’s a flicker of confusion on Mull-Two’s hardened face before he turns to one of his underlings - who promptly removes his helmet and reveals the exact same face. A crease of disbelief catches in my throat, but I swallow it down. The whole scene would be funny if it weren’t so razor-edged.

  "Mull-Two-and-a-Half, Third Division Operative for the Inter-Reality Regutors, ma’am," the twin says, bowing stiffly.

  Jordan doesn’t miss a beat. She nods back, perfectly cool, while I clench my fists at my sides - trying not to make a sound. I want to cheer for her, but I know we’re walking on a knife.

  Two-and-a-Half pulls out a small grey device, not unlike a barcode scanner, emitting a sickly green light as it hums to life. I flinch internally as it passes over Jordan’s body, grateful beyond words that it doesn’t point in my direction. When it scans Wayfarer, I brace for the air to erupt - expecting sirens, sers, something. But Mr 2.5 just nods.

  "It checks out. He’s from her world, all right."

  Mull-Two’s scowl deepens, his expression folding in on itself. Still, he gives a slow nod. "Very well then, Miss Bke. I apologise for intruding on your business. This worm has taken from us too, but we respect your cim over him, as per the Inter-Reality Constitution."

  The Inter-Reality Constitution. It sounds so absurd I almost ugh. Another yer of bureaucracy stretching between worlds like clingfilm.

  I watch the situation py out with disbelief. Dumb luck. Somehow, we fooled their machine. And because of that - we lived.

  He turns, raises a gloved hand. "Time to go, boys."

  Just like that, the bck-cd Regutors begin to retreat, their footfalls muffled by the too-soft, cold sand. It’s over. That’s it. We lied. We survived. I feel the sweat bead on my forehead and start to breathe again. It was too easy. We shouldn’t have got away with it - and yet we did.

  I turn to make a joke, something to break the tension-

  -but I stop, mouth half-open, as a raw sound cuts through the silence.

  Crying.

  Wayfarer has dropped to his knees, hands tangled in the strange white sand, shoulders hunched and trembling. He’s not posturing anymore. There’s something too human - too painful - etched into the sound of his sobs.

  Jordan and I both freeze. She’s visibly startled, her posture stiff, unsure what to do with the sudden change. For my part, I can’t look away. I want to believe it’s a trick, some final, maniputive flourish in his bag of chaos - but it doesn’t read that way. Not at all.

  "I’m... I’m from somewhere."

  His voice breaks, and for a moment, I forget everything else: the condescension, the chaos, the kidnapping. I just see someone lost. Someone like me.

  He hasn’t spoken much as the three of us trek across the strange nd - covering the distance between our nding point and the jumping point. I’m not compining. His quiet, contemptive self is far more endearing than the swaggering nuisance we met earlier. There’s something defted in him now, and that feels closer to real.

  The terrain around us is eerily smooth, soft beneath our feet, stretching endlessly in all directions like a surreal dream. There's a stillness here - no birds, no wind, no shifting trees. Just the three of us, walking through something that barely feels like a pce at all.

  "That was really great work back there," I say to Jordan, breaking the long, meditative silence.

  She smiles - tired but proud. "Thanks. Though, I guess I got a bit lucky. I suppose their tech must work by looking at the st reality that somebody was in."

  I nod. That would expin it. It’s either that, or...

  "No," Wayfarer says, and we both stop, watching as he closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head. His voice has lost all of its performance. "Their tech is fwless. They compared my biology with every known species in the multiverse, and matched me to the world with the closest genome."

  I blink. Despite everything - despite the way he looks and speaks and moves - he’s not from another world. He’s from ours. My heart pangs. Not ours, Jordan’s.

  "So, what? You’re from our world?" Jordan says, hand settling on her hip like she’s trying to anchor herself to something solid.

  "I don’t know, J-Dog," he mutters, rubbing his chin. "I’ve always just assumed I came from nowhere. I just... appeared as a kid one day, in a nd that didn’t want me there. I’ve been wandering ever since."

  "It sounds like you might’ve been born in our world," I say softly. "And just... fell through."

  It’s rare. But it happens. Being heard of again afterwards? Much, much rarer.

  "We can check once you get us home," Jordan says, beginning to walk again. "We can get your blood tested, and see if you’re human."

  "My blood?" he says, pausing.

  "Yes. A blood test? We take some blood and run tests on it."

  His face crumples in disgust, like she’s just suggested a ritual of some sorts. "You guys haven’t figured out a better way of doing that?"

  I ugh. I can’t help it. After everything - the orbs, the lightning, the soldiers, the bullshit - it’s what finally breaks the tension. Even Jordan grins a little.

  "Is that you offering your crib then, J-dog?" Wayfarer smirks, the old version of him bleeding back in. "Do I hear a bid coming in from lil o' Mai-Mai?"

  I scoff, shaking my head. "You can’t stay at mine, wafer-man. Not unless you’ve changed your mind on cells in the past half hour."

  He tilts his head, curious. He doesn’t press it. Instead, he looks to Jordan.

  She sighs - a long, reluctant thing that seems to drain the st of her resistance. "Okay."

  She’s not doing it for him. That’s obvious. She’s looking at him like he’s some scruffy mirror of me - a misfit who doesn’t belong anywhere, one decision away from being locked up for life. And I know, as soon as I see it, that she’s doing this to give The Coalition the finger. She’s not seeing Wayfarer - she’s seeing the child that she helped put in a cage, st week.

  "I have one condition, though."

  "Anything for you, J-dog."

  "You stop calling me that."

  Time has passed by the time we make it back to the park, though we’re still technically within office hours. I don’t think we’d be in any trouble if we both just went home, but I have unfinished business at the office. So I say goodbye to Jordan and Wayfarer - wishing her luck and sanity - and walk away, gutted that I won’t get to watch that chaos unfold. I’d pay good money to see how that dynamic pys out.

  There is a risk that he could still be dangerous. That he’s pyed us for fools. But I don’t think so. Constructing bodies has made me good at understanding them - and he seems helpless.

  The office feels smaller now. Petty, even. A box pretending to be a world. After everything I’ve seen today, the whirring keyboards and artificial lights barely register. Still, all the eyes are on me again as I strut across the floor - curious, suspicious, maybe even scared. Let them look. I don’t care anymore.

  I head straight to George’s desk. He looks up, startled, as I approach and jab a finger toward the meeting room.

  "We need to talk," I say.

  He nods silently and follows me inside. He takes the same chair as before. I stay standing.

  I don’t know what exactly shifted in me since this morning. Maybe it was watching Jordan - loyal, model-agent Jordan - choose rebellion. Maybe it was Wayfarer’s meltdown, his desperation to belong somewhere. Maybe it’s been simmering all week, ready to boil. But something's ignited now, and the fme has found its target.

  "I’m done," I say, bluntly. "I’m done being pushed around by an organisation that treats me like a tool, rather than a person. If you want me to keep working for you, George, I need to see some changes."

  "Maisie, I don’t have the power to-"

  "I don’t care," I say, ughing as I shake my head. "Because either I get what I want, or I quit. And I don’t care if that means locking me up again, George, I really don’t. I am done."

  He shrinks in his chair, stunned - like he’s watching someone walk off-script. I feel the adrenaline in every inch of my body, vibrating under my skin. But I don’t falter. I meant every word.

  He sighs, his muscles tensing. "What changes are you wanting, Maisie?"

  I nod, pacing slowly, my boots scuffing the carpet. I don’t know if I believe I’ll get what I’m asking for - or if he’ll just call my bluff and throw me back in a cell. But this time, it wouldn’t be so clean. Not with Jordan in the picture. Not with people who care about me now.

  "I want the same employment rights as everybody else," I say, both hands braced on the table as I lean in, fire simmering low in my chest. "I don’t want to ever be asked to manipute my colleagues again. And I want people to call me Maisie, not fucking MH."

  He presses his lips together. "Maisie, you know that-"

  "I’m not done," I snap - quieter than before, but sharper. I take a breath, steadying myself before I push further. "I want a door that locks, George. That nobody else in The Coalition has access to. Fucking Tommy went in my room st week while I wasn’t there. That’s not right."

  "Fine," he says, his voice quieter, eyes sinking toward the floor.

  I blink, caught off guard. "Fine?"

  "I’ll see what I can do," he says with a tired sigh. "I can’t make any promises. But I reckon I can wrangle most of that. I didn’t know about your door. I’m sorry about that."

  A flicker of relief washes over me, though it’s dulled by scepticism. I believe he means it - I just don’t know if he can actually do it.

  "Thank you," I say, tone ft. This isn’t about gratitude. Not yet. "But I’m serious, George. I don’t care if Graham says no. If I don’t get what I want - I’m done helping. I’m not asking for much. I just want to feel like a person. And I’m not bluffing."

  He exhales again, nodding. "I know you’re not. I’ll do what I can."

  "Thank you."

  I’d put a lot of thought into who Niamh was when I met Jamie for coffee on Saturday, but there were still things I hadn’t figured out. For example: when Jamie booted up Mario Kart on his Switch, I was faced with the character select screen - and suddenly realised that Niamh’s choice would reveal a lot about her.

  Just as Jamie’s selection reveals a lot about himself. He chooses Peachette - the famous Princess Peach, but even more feminine. All puffed petticoats and glitter-pink pigtailed elegance. I smirk, unable to help myself, which causes him to fold his arms across his chest and lean back on the couch like I’ve accused him of treason.

  "She’s meta!" he blurts, cheeks already flushing. "She has the best stats out of all the characters."

  I nod, the smirk only deepening. It’s hard not to feel a flicker of fondness for him - and maybe a little envy, too. His life is messy, sure, but at least it’s his. And he doesn’t have to shapeshift to figure himself out.

  "I see," I say, selecting Peachette with a flourish of mock gravitas. "In that case, I’m not giving you any advantage."

  It feels like something Niamh would do - pick the same character just to tease him, just to even the pying field. Or, maybe I want to win. It’s hard to tell where the character ends and I begin, but pying Niamh with Jamie is easy. It feels normal. It feels free.

  Perhaps Niamh is competitive, or maybe she just likes to py as if she is. I’m not kidding myself into thinking that I have any hope of winning any contest between Jamie and myself - no matter whose face I’m using. I had access to a lot of hobbies during my time in captivity, but I hadn’t pyed my first video game until a house party hosted by one of Lexi’s friends. Definitely not a strength of mine. I wouldn’t even know how to cheat, either - it’s not like I can just increase the size of the gamer muscle in my thumbs. No, it’s all in my head. Just another thing that Lexi ughs at me for, saying that I’m the only trans girl who doesn’t game.

  I’d started the game sitting next to him, but the screen was too small, and my excuse was that I needed to get closer. Really, I just wanted to be near. I’ve perched myself on the floor now, cross-legged at the base of the couch beneath his knees, gncing back up at him as the race starts. It’s intimate. More than it should be, maybe. But not in a bad way.

  We py the first course in near-total silence, broken only by my theatrical groaning every time I spin out into the mud - which is often. Jamie whoops in delight as he passes me for the second time, already a p ahead, and I mime hurling the controller at his face. He flinches with such cartoonish drama that he both joins me in the muck and accidentally pauses the game, and our combined ughter makes my chest ache in a way I didn’t expect.

  I tip my head back, letting it rest against the edge of the couch. I look up at him, and there he is - brighter than he was that first night at the club, when his face had seemed to dissolve into the shadows. The same softness is there, though. That same warmth I’d caught in flickers. And now it shines.

  "What are we doing here, Niamh?" he says, his smile wavering as self-doubt starts to trickle in.

  "We’re racing," I say, with a shrug. It’s deliberately evasive - a gentle deflection. Not an answer, not really. But I want him to keep going. I want him to name the shape of this moment, even if I already know we’re too close to something I can’t afford.

  He leans back into the couch, crossing his arms with a huff. "That’s not what I mean... It’s just... No offence, but we don’t know each other. You’re just a girl that I broke down in front of. Twice. And now, you’re in my room pying video games with me."

  The words sting more than they should. I feel a twitch at the corner of my eye - an instinct to ugh it off - but I let Niamh breathe for me instead. She’s lighter than I am.

  "I just like spending time with you. Is that so hard to believe?"

  "Why, though?"

  "I don’t have many other friends," I say, and wave the question away like it’s trivial. I know it doesn’t hold up - Niamh looks like someone who should have a hundred friends and a never-ending calendar of brunch dates. But it’s the only answer I can safely give. He squints.

  "What about your friend who works in the bar?"

  That gets my attention. My neck whips around fast enough to startle both of us. He can’t mean... but of course he means Cassie. And his cute little ugh at my over-reaction confirms it.

  "I knew it! I knew you two knew each other."

  I should lie, but I can't. My expression’s done all the talking for me.

  "How did you know?" I say, matching his smile and letting Niamh smooth over the spike of panic still twisting in my ribs.

  He shrugs. "She used my name a while back and I had no idea where she got it from. You were a lucky guess - you’re probably the only woke person that I know."

  "Woke?" I repeat, clutching my chest with an exaggerated gasp and a round of ughter that’s too big for how tight my throat suddenly feels. The word nds awkwardly - not cruel, just ignorant. He doesn’t know better yet, but it still grates.

  "You know... You were trying to talk me out of that whole male hierarchy thing," he says, still not looking at me, voice softening, like he knows he’s tiptoeing around a minefield. "Sorry, shit wording from me. I didn’t mean anything by it."

  "What?" I say, swatting his leg - not hard, just enough to touch. To keep the energy light. "You assumed that because I don’t believe in your ‘clean your room’ pick-up artist bullshit that I must have a bunch of trans friends?"

  He gives a sheepish smile and shifts again, his body nguage folding in on itself. And then - I feel it. That almost-confession, dangling on the edge of his tongue. I watch him decide not to say it. Maybe he doesn’t even know what it is yet.

  "When you next see her, can you tell her sorry from me, okay?" he says, voice suddenly careful. "I don’t know what I did to offend her, but I’ve been feeling really bad about it."

  I owe him something. I know that.

  "She was scared that you were flirting with her," I say, and it’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie either.

  He blushes. "Would that be bad of me to do?"

  His voice is softer now. The question is real. And it’s not just about Cassie anymore. He’s asking about the rules of the world - asking if the shape of his want is something shameful. I feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck.

  And Niamh’s impulsiveness takes control of my usual restraint.

  "Yes," I say, my head hanging low, unable to look at him, as the next words leave Niamh’s lips. "Because she knows that I like you."

  The air thickens instantly, taut with silence and unspoken things. I feel foolish for saying it - too much, too real - but it is true. I don’t know everything about Niamh, but I know this: she likes Jamie. Not just in the shallow, flirty way that’s easy to discard, but in the quiet, protective way that grows without permission. He’s a confused mess, but he’s adorable. Filled to the brim with sweetness and a desire to be better. And if I’m honest with myself - which I rarely am - it’s not just Niamh. It’s me.

  "Oh," he says, a soft sound, like he’s afraid to break something fragile between us. I don’t look up. "Niamh... I’m fttered..."

  There’s a crack in his voice - the barest tremor - and I tch onto it. It's a splinter of uncertainty, just enough to keep my heart from falling out of my chest entirely. But I know it’s coming.

  "...but I can’t have a retionship right now. I have too much stuff going on."

  I quietly push myself off the floor and sit beside him on the couch, needing to be level again, needing not to be beneath him. The floor was the wrong pce to be - it made me feel like a floating ghost while he was still grounded. I dig my fingers into my thigh, trying to root myself somewhere, anywhere.

  "What stuff?" I say, though I already know. I just want to hear him say it. For both our sakes.

  His face is lit up in shades of red, like a cartoon thermometer. "I just need to... figure some things out. And I don’t know if you’ll still be interested by the end of it. I don’t want to lead you on, Niamh, I’m sorry."

  He’s trying to protect me - and himself. He’s not ready to be desired, not yet. But it hurts, because I do desire him, and I want to make it easy for him to believe he’s allowed to be loved. And it shouldn’t hurt. Because I’m happy for him. Clearly, he’s making progress - he knows that something isn’t right. That’s a development from Saturday.

  But my childish, desperate mouth ignores that joy.

  "Jamie, I’m bisexual," I say.

  It’s meant as a lifeline, but I realise too te that it’s selfish - an attempt to drag him into the light by saying, look, I already love what you’re scared of being. A way of reframing his identity into being solely about my desires.

  His face deepens to burgundy. "I know! But... why would you say that? I’m a man, Niamh."

  "Are you?" I say, gently.

  He inhales sharply. His breathing’s growing heavier, fast like he’s circling a panic. For a split second I fear he’ll shut down entirely, grab the controller and vanish behind button-mashing and circuits.

  But he doesn’t.

  He ughs.

  "Jesus Christ, of course you know," he says, voice fragile with disbelief - and relief. "You’ve known since we met, haven’t you?"

  A beat.

  "Since the crying, yes."

  He stares at me like I’ve opened him up - peeled back the skin and gently pressed a finger to the rawest part of him. His hands are trembling around the controller. I know it’s not just about pausing the game anymore - it’s a tether to reality, to the version of himself that isn’t yet soft, isn’t yet honest.

  He wants to unpause. To forget this just happened. But he doesn’t.

  And now I’m frozen, too. Because I want him to speak. But I also want to protect him. And maybe - just maybe - protect myself from what happens next.

  "Jamie," I say, my voice soft. "It’s okay."

  One of his legs jolts at the sound of my voice, like I’ve just sent a low-voltage current running through him. His hands drag down his face, fingers trembling, rubbing at skin that’s already flushed. His eyes flick up to meet mine, just for a moment. The ughter he’s been using like a paper mask has gone soggy at the edges, barely holding.

  "I don’t know if it is okay."

  My chest tightens. Not because he’s rejecting me - but because I can see it in his eyes. He’s scared. Of what he feels, of what it means, of what might change. I shift gently on the couch, curling my legs underneath me and folding into a softer shape. I keep my body loose, still, unthreatening. No sudden movements. He’s shrinking, shoulders caving inward, like a frightened animal bracing for a blow.

  "Why not?" I ask, my voice still low, still steady.

  His throat bobs as he swallows. "Because I don’t... I can’t..." The words come jagged, breath snagging. "I don’t know what any of it means. What if I’m... I don’t know!"

  I don’t interrupt. I let the silence hold, just in case there’s more - but he doesn’t take it. I know what he meant to say. What if I’m wrong?

  "You don’t have to know right now."

  He scoffs, like I’ve said something ridiculous, like I’ve broken some unspoken rule of reality.

  "How can I not know? Everybody knows!" His voice cracks upward in volume, frustration burning through it.

  Without thinking, I reach over and pce a hand on his knee - just enough pressure to remind him that he’s not alone, not untethered. My thumb twitches, like it wants to move, to comfort. And then I remember: I just told this man I have feelings for him. I recoil, softly, letting my hand slip away like it was never there.

  "Jamie-" I start, working my words carefully. "You know my friend. Cassie? The girl that works in the bar?"

  He nods.

  "It took her a very long time to figure things out. She was miserable. She felt like she was pretending to be somebody that she wasn’t, and it took her a very long time to find the version of herself that made her happy."

  Every word is true. But I can feel how close to the edge I’m skating - how much of myself is bleeding through. Cassie - I - spent so long filing, not knowing who I was, being unable to cope with life outside of The Coalition’s four walls.

  And then I met Lexi, who changed everything.

  "And is she?" he asks, eyes darting to the floor. There’s a crack in his voice - hope and heartbreak warbling in the same breath. "Happy?"

  "She’s so happy, Jamie." I smile - genuine, warm. "And you’ve seen her. She’s gorgeous."

  He nods slowly, breathing deep. "She is."

  And for the first time, the tension in his face slips. Something in him releases. His shoulders soften. The tiniest smile touches the corner of his mouth.

  "So it’s okay if it takes some time," I say gently, watching that smile like it’s a fragile, flickering thing. Like if I breathe too hard, it might go out.

  He nods. Not with certainty - but with permission. And I let that be enough.

  There’s still something heavy in the air, something unspoken. Something neither of us are brave enough to say yet.

  "How are you so good at this?" he asks quietly, looking at me like I’ve just pulled off a magic trick.

  I shrug, keeping my tone breezy, but something aches inside me. "I’ve done this before."

  "With Cassie?"

  "Mhm."

  Maybe not a total lie, if you look at it in an abstract way. What I don’t say is: I’m trying to be your Lexi, even if I shouldn’t be.

  "Now do you want to get back to doing something I’m not good at?" I ask, nodding to the screen.

  The rest of the evening is nice, though Jamie gracefully skirts any further conversations regarding his repressed gender identity. We py games, we order Chinese, and we ugh. Mostly, we ugh. Being with him reminds me of being with Lexi - he’s somebody I can trust. Who hasn’t hurt me like so many others have. Hell, after today, maybe I’m even starting to feel that warmth towards Jordan. I don’t remember her bringing up her gym routine once.

  Yet, as I walk home, I cry.

  I don’t mean to, and it makes me feel pathetic, but I can’t stop it. The tears slip out silently, shamefully, and I walk faster to avoid the imagined judgment of strangers I pass. The night air feels like punishment - sharp and biting against my face. It cuts deeper than anything I felt in that lifeless, alien world earlier today. It’s like the sky itself is trying to fy me open.

  It’s all so unfair.

  I’m lying to Lexi. I’m lying to Jamie. My friendship with Lexi hinges on me never being discovered - because if she finds out, she’ll hate me. I can picture it perfectly: the disbelief, the heartbreak, the twist of betrayal into something hard and cold. She’d look at me like I was a stranger. Like I’d never existed. Because I never did.

  And I can never love Jamie.

  I said that I liked him, and I meant it, but if he had said he felt the same way - what would he have done when he learned the truth? I picture his face in that moment. His desperate eyes, blinking in disbelief, before the mask of shame and confusion falls over him completely.

  He doesn’t know the real me. He’s never allowed to know the real me. He would feel deceived, and slink back into his shell - shut the closet door tight. And I’d have ruined him.

  I’m not allowed to love. Because of them. Because of The Coalition. Because I can’t be my true self freely, while they linger over me like a threat. If I had met all of my friends on my own terms - they would know the truth from the start. Wouldn’t they?

  But I’ve been forced into these lies. Forced to exist in fragments. Made to feel that everything I cling to is tenuous and temporary.

  They’ve ruined my life.

  And then I remember Jordan’s act of rebellion - taking in Wayfarer. And I remember Jamie’s courage in forming the first crack in his eggshell. They’re so much braver than me. They aren’t letting the past define what comes next. Jordan isn’t afraid of The Coalition. Jamie isn’t afraid to face up to his truth.

  "God, I wish I was as brave as you," Jordan’s voice echoes in my head, and I physically flinch, a sharp recoil like I’ve just touched something burning. The lie of it hits me in the chest. I want to scream.

  I’m not brave. I’m terrified of all of this. I can’t handle it.

  ...Or can I?

  I slow to a stop under the harsh gre of a streetmp and look down at my mashed-up phone, the cracked screen glowing up at me like an open wound. My thumb hovers over the screen, the weight of the decision anchoring my whole body in pce.

  Am I really going to let what The Coalition did to me scare me away from confronting the truth? Am I so scared of facing up to my own past? What else will I let them take from me, if so?

  I think about the worst-case scenario. I think about the pain. I think about how it’ll feel - reliving every wound in full colour. I imagine it hitting like a tidal wave, pulling me under.

  It feels suicidal.

  But I need to know.

  I take a deep breath and type the message to Margaret.

  Maisie: Order the pill.

  LilAgarwal