Foundation to smooth out the dark circles under my eyes—the permanent shadows that mark me as someone who doesn't sleep, can't sleep, is too afraid of nightmares to close her eyes for more than a few hours at a time. Contour to sharpen my cheekbones, to make me look severe and beautiful instead of just tired. Eyeshadow in shades of pink and grey, blended until it looks like bruising or storm clouds or the space between waking and dreaming.
And the lips.
Dark red.
Blood red.
The shade of arterial spray, of violence, of the endings I've written with my own hands.
I paint it on carefully, staying inside the lines, creating a mouth that looks like a wound. Like a warning. Like a promise that I'm dangerous even when I'm pretty.
Especially when I'm pretty.
The girl in the mirror stares back at me—mismatched eyes bright with something that might be hope, might be madness, might be both. The teardrop tattoo near her eye glints in the fluorescent light. Her lips curve in a smile that's more threat than invitation.
There you are, I think.There's my girl.
My dual blades go on last.
They slide into the sheaths built into the back of my corset—a modification I made myself, because fashion should never compromise function. The hilts rest between my shoulder blades, easily accessible if I need them.
Not that I'll need them.
Probably.
Maybe…
You never know in Ruthless, the paranoid part of my brain whispers.You never fucking know.
I grab my bag—essentials only, key card, and emergency supplies—and head for the door.
The dressing room opens onto a corridor that connects to the main dance building, and I'm barely three steps into it when the laughter starts.
High. Cruel. Familiar.
A group of Omegas clusters near the water fountain—four of them, all pretty in the conventional way, all wearing the kind of contempt that says they've never had to fight for anything in their lives. They're in dance attire too, I notice. Matching leotards in deep purple that mark them as part of the elite track.
The ones with packs.
The ones with futures.
The ones who look at girls like me and see garbage to be disposed of.
"Oh look," one of them says, loud enough to carry. "The crazy bitch is playing dress-up again."
More laughter.
I keep walking.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
"Love the costume, Sera!" another calls out. "Veryinstitution chic. Did you steal it from the psych ward?"
My toe twitches inside my shoe. My fingers flex at my sides—open, close, open, close—four times each.
Don't engage. Don't engage. You have somewhere to be.
"I heard she writes letters to an imaginary friend," a third voice adds, dripping with mock concern. "How sad is that? A whole made-up person because no one real can stand to be around her."
