I carry it to the sink.
The lighter’s already there. I keep it stashed for candles, incense, whatever excuse I’ve told myself over the years.
I flick it once.
Twice.
Third time, the flame holds.
I don’t hesitate. Just press the corner of the ID into the fire and watch it blacken.
The plastic curls like it’s trying to hold on. The image distorts, warps, disappears. I hold it until the flames lick my knuckles and I drop it into the metal basin.
It doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg.
Just melts. Quiet and final.
The smell’s chemical and sharp, like the way my past used to taste.
I watch until there’s nothing left but a slick puddle of ruin.
“I’m not her,” I whisper.
My voice is steady.
“I’m not her anymore.”
I rinse the ashes down the drain, scrub the sink clean, and toss the lighter in the trash.
I won’t survive as that girl. Not again. Not with what’s coming.
So she’s gone.
Burned.
And I’m what’s left.
CHAPTER 12
ROJA
The underdeck doesn’t welcome people like me anymore. It eyes me sideways—like a stray coming home too late, covered in blood that isn’t his. Pipes hiss above my head as I duck under a steam vent. The walls here aren’t just sweating. They’re crying—grease and condensation weeping down into trash-clogged gutters.
Every footstep I take sounds too loud.
I keep my coat closed. Blade strapped tight to my side, pulse glider clipped at the small of my back. It’s not paranoia when your name’s in someone’s killfile. It’s survival.
The Pith is still open. Neon barely holding on above the door, flickering between pink and piss-yellow like it can’t decide what kind of lie to tell.
Inside, it smells like warm metal and recycled breath.
Feron’s in his usual booth—back corner, view of both exits. Same rat-brown jacket. Same scar along his jaw, courtesy of a plasma cutter that didn't quite finish the job.
He sees me. Doesn’t smile.
“Roja,” he says. “Thought you were buried under a load of scrap and shame.”
“Not yet.”
