I stare at my reflection, and a perfect soldier stares back. My eyes are the only recognizable part of me now, and even they appear different. They make me want to hide. To rip this uniform off and crawl back into the safety of my bed, only to spend another day wondering if things will ever change.
I know they won’t. Someone needs to stand up for the rest, and I’m done being a bystander. No longer will I wait for others to give me what I’ve never had.
So I lift my chin and square my shoulders like I’ve seen Lachlan do. I need to carry myself differently now, doing away with the subtle, contained movements I’ve become accustomed to. I need to take up space, project confidence and strength.
I nod to myself before gathering my things. It’s only when I leave the bathroom that I grasp I need to leave some explanation; my family deserves that much, at least.
Staring at the blank piece of paper I grabbed from my notebook, I struggle to find words that could possibly explain what I’m doing. Or why.
How do I tell them I love them but need more? Or explain their protection has become a prison, though it’s kept me safeand alive all these years? How do I make them understand I need to dosomething, not just hide forever?
I write out a dozen versions, each attempt insufficient before I settle for the simple truth.
I’m sorry, I have to try. I love you.
Before I can think better of it, I place the note on my bed and hurry to the front door. I allow myself to pause for only a moment as I wheeze through pursed lips, the air in my lungs suddenly weighing too much.
For a second, fear overwhelms me. I could turn around, slip off the mask, dispose of the evidence, and pretend I never considered this madness. But at what cost?
I’m done questioning myself. The lock flips before my fingers tug the door open. Cool, fresh air rushes in, carrying scents I’ve only briefly been exposed to before. The predawn sky stretches above me, a twinkling canvas of deep blue fading to the first hints of light.
My foot steps across the threshold.
I’m outside.
I’m outside.
For the first time in my entire life, I’m outside.
The sensation is disorienting. Dizzying. There’s no ceiling above me, no walls caging me in—just open space stretching in all directions. It’s a vulnerable feeling, and hairs rise along my arms at how exposed I am. And yet…I’m exhilarated. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain anyone within city limits must hear, but perhaps not over the ragged breathing I’m failing to control.
There’s no one around. The street is empty; silent in the early morning hours, and my senses pick up no active emotion, only lingering remnants of others who occupied this street in the late hours of the night.
I thought there would be others heading to the Hall, eagerto join this new team, but there’s not a soul in sight. There must be some men coming, right? They likely live within the inner parts of Pyrem, so I’ll see them soon enough.
But still I pause, uncertain. Is it the right day? Did I misunderstand what Hardan said?
No, I heard correctly. I’m certain of it. The others are just taking different routes or don’t wish to join a group that hunts women who’ve managed to escape.
I chuckle to myself. Like that would ever happen.
Peering left, I orient my mind toward the city center as planned. The route is burned into my memory—two blocks east, four north, then west one block. Easy. I can do this.
My first steps are awkward as Lachlan’s boots stomp heavily on the paved street. Am I moving wrong? It feels as though anyone who sees me will instantly know I’m not what I appear to be. Each attempt to walk as my twin does is strange, with longer strides and a slight swing to my arms. It feels unnatural, but I persist.
As I advance deeper into the city, buildings grow taller and more imposing. Many are constructed of black glass and steel, reflecting the emerging dawn in streaks of orange and purple. These are the administrative towers, where officials work and some men live. Small apartments stacked one on top of another like the shelves of our bookcase at home.
I’m struck by a wave of gratitude for our modest house. How could anyone have hidden me in one of these glass towers? The thought fires shivering fear through me. If not for my parents’ home, with its humbly renovated underground hatch, I would have been discovered years ago. Or more likely, never given the chance to exist as anything but a usable hole and breeding stock.
“North on Basin Street,” I whisper to myself, reciting thedirections continuously as I walk. “Four blocks. Then west on Syndicate Avenue. One block.”
The quiet repetition keeps my mind focused, preventing me from spiraling into lingering panic. I pass darkened storefronts, their windows displaying goods I’ve seen only on television. Clothing shops with mannequins dressed in men’s attire. An electronic store with devices whose purpose I cannot even guess. A grocer with fresh produce artfully arranged, the bright colors muted by the night. There are streaks of blue at the edge of one building, as if someone attempted to wipe something away.
Each turn I feel more awed and enraged. This simple act of walking down a street, of seeing shops and buildings up close, burns away any hesitation I clung to since leaving my bed—this basic freedom has been denied to half the population.
My pace quickens, renewed anger fueling each step.Thisis why I’m leaving.Thisis why the risk is worth taking.
Pyrem Hall looms ahead, a massive structure of black stone and tinted glass. Unlike the other buildings, which gleam with polish and care, this one projects an intentional austerity. It’s meant to intimidate—to remind citizens of the Syndicate’s power.
