It's perfect.
And as I watch Vespera order pizza like we didn't just burn down everything we knew, I realize I wouldn't change a single thing.
We chose loud. We chose messy. We chose each other.
And that's enough.
forty-seven
Vespera
WeekOneinNewYork, and I remember why people say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
The apartment is somehow smaller than it looked when we first arrived. Four people in a studio meant for one creates a special kind of chaos—Dorian's expensive clothes fighting for closet space with my three thrift store dresses, Corvus's laptop setup competing with Oakley's scripts and audition sides for the single desk, everyone negotiating shower schedules like we're broking international treaties.
But it works. Somehow, impossibly, it works.
Rehearsals for "The Omega's Gambit"—Vivian Strasberg's new production—are brutal. Six hours a day, six days a week, with a director who makes Professor De Scarzis look lenient. Marcus Bellamy doesn't care that I'm young or new or still figuring out how to be a professional. He cares that I deliver, every single time.
I love it.
"Again," Marcus calls from the house. We're working on Act Two, Scene Three—the confrontation between my character Emma and the Alpha council who thinks they can control her future. "More rage. Less performance. I want to see the fury underneath."
I reset to my mark. The other actors shift back into position. We're in a black box theater in Brooklyn, the kind of space where real work happens before anyone gives a shit about pretty sets or costumes.
"From 'You think I'll just accept this,'" Marcus instructs.
I take a breath, find Emma's rage underneath Vespera's exhaustion, and let it rip.
"You think I'll just accept this?" The words come out sharp enough to draw blood. "That I'll sit quietly while you auction off my future to the highest bidder? That biology is destiny and Omegas should be grateful for any scraps you throw?"
My scene partner—a Beta actor named James who actually gets what this play is about—steps forward with the perfect amount of condescension.
"It's not personal," he says. "It's tradition."
"Fuck tradition." I let Emma's fury fill the space. "Tradition is just another word for comfortable oppression. For systems that benefit you and destroy me. You want me compliant? Manageable? Appropriate?"
I laugh, and it's Medea's laugh, the one I used at Northwood.
"Then you should have killed me when you had the chance."
"Yes!" Marcus shouts. "That's it. That's the fire I need. Take five, everyone."
The other actors disperse, heading for coffee and cigarettes and whatever helps them reset. I grab my water bottle and check my phone.
Three missed calls from an unknown number. Four texts from the pack group chat.
Dorian:Interview went well. They want to see me again tomorrow.
Oakley:Callback for off-off-Broadway showcase. Fingers crossed.
Corvus:Found a consulting gig. Remote work, decent pay. Details later.
I smile at the phone. They're figuring it out. We're all figuring it out.
The unknown number calls again. I almost ignore it, but something makes me answer.
"Hello?"
