"Still. He seemed like a good guy. Just bad timing."
"Bad judgment, you mean. Getting involved with his placement supervisor? Textbook conflict of interest."
Lacy's not my supervisor. She's just the business owner. But facts don't matter to them. Narrative does. And the narrative says I crossed lines that shouldn't be crossed.
Another voice chimes in. "Blair's pushing hard on the non-human limits anyway. This just gave her ammunition."
"What limits?"
"For civic events. Festival staff. She wants humans only in visible positions. Says it's about public comfort."
"That's discrimination."
"That's politics. She'll frame it as safety. Crowd management. Whatever sells."
My hands clench. Blair isn't just pulling me from one placement. She's building a case to limit all of us. Keep orcs and others in back rooms. Away from children and cameras and anything that might remind humans we exist.
The voices fade as someone closes the window.
I stand on the concrete. City moving around me. Inside me, something cracks.
I wanted to belong. To prove orcs could integrate without losing ourselves. That we deserved space here. Respect.
But maybe that was naive. Maybe all my earnestness and poetry and careful gentleness means nothing when people look at me and see threat. Spectacle. Problem.
My phone dings again. Lacy, still waiting for an answer.
I type slowly.
Suspended from placement. They want me away from the bookstore.
Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again.
On my way. Don't move.
I slide the phone into my pocket. Lean against the building. Close my eyes.
Somewhere above, the break room conversation probably continues. People debating my life like it's a policy problem. An inconvenience to navigate.
I'm so tired of being navigated.
Tired of measuring every word. Every action. Every public breath.
Tired of wondering if loving someone openly makes me a bad representative of my people.
Tired of being a representative at all instead of just Stone. Just me. Messy and earnest and trying so hard it hurts.
Footsteps approach. I don't open my eyes. Don't want to see pity or curiosity or the careful neutral expressions people wear when dealing with disappointing orcs.
"Stone."
Lacy's voice. I look.
She's breathless. Hair messy like she ran the whole way. Eyes fierce.
"Tell me everything," she says.
So I do.
