“I don’t think this counts as confidence. This feels like a midlife crisis.”
“Great,” she chirps. “Have it early while your skin’s still good.”
Before I can protest further, she tosses the dress at me and grabs a sleek black one for herself. It’s dramatic, and beautiful, and very Lilia.
She catches my expression and smirks.
“What?” she says. “If I have to be trapped at a ballet performance with zero snacks, I might as well look good.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile as I step into the dress she gave me. The fabric is cool against my skin, and it fits weirdly well.
After we both reemerge from the closet, Lilia grabs her makeup bag off the dresser and plops me in front of the mirror. “Sit. No objections. I’m turning you into someone dangerous.”
She works fast, a soft brush here, a gentle pull at the corner of my eye there. Smudge of eyeliner, swipe of colour on my lips.
“You’re not overdoing it?” I ask, squinting at my reflection.
“No,” she says, already working on her own mascara. “This is calledeffort, Addie. I do it three times a week minimum.”
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth tug upward.
By the time she finishes her own look, and mine, I look in the mirror and suddenly feel strange.
Because it’s still me. Just… different. More like a version I might’ve imagined once but never really allowed to exist.
Lilia fastens the clasp at the nape of my neck and peers over my shoulder into the mirror. “Told you,” she says with a satisfied nod. “Dangerous.”
Kai
I hear them in the walls again.
The whispers. The faces that hide in the stillness of the room, somewhere in the space between the ceiling and the floor. Some of them are mine.
The light bends strangely in here. It flickers even when nothing’s on. I don’t trust it. There are shadows that move without cause, too, and I know—I know—someone else is breathing in this room. But every time I look, it’s just me.
I haven’t moved in hours. Or minutes. Or maybe it’s been days. Time doesn’t really make sense anymore. I just sit in one spot, staring at the same crack in the wall, convinced it’s getting wider. Maybe everything is.
Or maybe the crack isn’t in the wall at all.
I stare at it until my vision blurs, and even then, I don’t blink. There’s a rhythm to it, like a heartbeat I can’t quite hear. Sometimes I think if I listen closely enough, I’ll understand what it’s trying to say.
And still, the fire doesn’t go out.
It’s in my ribs now. Like something alive. Something chewing. A boil instead of a burn. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop.
I wonder what they’d make of me now. Here, like this. What would they think when I’ve finally done what I need to do?
They’ll think I’ve lost it. They’ll call me a monster. A madman, maybe.
And I’ll let them. Because to them, the only good man is a silent one.
They’ll be confused at first, but after a while, they’ll blame me for whatthey’vedone. Whatthey’vecreated. And suddenly, you’re not a tragedy anymore. You’re a threat.
Let them look.
Let them name me.
Their morality is convenience above all else. A leash. It bends when it’s useful and breaks when it’s not. There is no such thing as good or evil. Just perspective. Just angles. Just blood on different hands.
