I recognize it.
It’s the kind of fire that got me cast out.
It’s the kind of fire that makes people die.
I shouldn’t watch her. Ican’twant anything from her.
My blood is marked. My hands—no matter how clean I keep them—still carry echoes of screams. And still, she…seesme.
Not clearly. Not yet. But something inside her knows I’m not just a monster in the cliffs. That’s more terrifying than any weapon. More dangerous than any sting tail.
And tonight, when I find the cookie—still warm from the heat of her palm—my fingers tremble as I pick it up.
I take it back to the cavern, but I don’t eat it right away. I stare at it first. Like it might accuse me. Like it might vanish if I look away.
I sit on the flat stone I use as a bench and hold the cookie between two claws. My claws dwarf it. I could crush it without trying. But I don’t.
I inhale.
It smells sweeter this time. Like she added something extra. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. I wouldn’t know. But I tell myself it’s different. That she meant this one more.
I take a bite.
And everything goes still.
There’s no war here. No shame. No death. Just sugar and softness and a warmth that shouldn't belong on this hell-world. And it’s hers. From her. Forme.
My hands shake harder.
I curse myself.
Weak. Foolish. Sentimental.
But I eat the rest, slow, savoring every grain. Every tiny hint of vanilla and butter and salt.
After, I burn the wrapper again. But not before I fold it carefully. Smooth the creases. Hold it like it matters.
I don’t sleep that night.
Not because I’m afraid.
Because I don’t trust what’s growing behind my ribs.
CHAPTER 7
JILLIAN
I’m starting to thinkno one actually listens to me.
Not really. Not the way I’m trying to be heard.
Professor Ciampa smiles like he’s soothing a frightened child, but the warmth never reaches his eyes. He leans back in that ridiculous rumpled chair in the lab like he owns every speck of dust in the entire compound, folds his hands behind his head, and swallows my latest findings like they’re someone else’s problem.
“Fascinating, Ms. Smith,” he says, voice silky and slow, like doses of honey without the sweetness. “But subsonic resonances in crystalline growths are common under stress fractures. Continue with your assigned grid pattern.”
“Sir,” I say, teeth clenched behind my mask, “these aren’t stress fractures. The fungi arerespondingto specific frequencies. Sound patterns. They pulse differently, not just reflect light.”
He shakes his head. “There’s no biological precedent for your hypothesis here. Stick to the grid, and I’ll review your scans later.”
