“Fine,” I whispered, shame burning in my throat. “Take me.”
With a nod, she helped me to my feet. I tried to compose myself as she led me through the city’s tangled maze of streets—so unnatural, so artificial. I followed her up a narrow flight of crumbling concrete stairs, every step jarring through my bones like a countdown I didn’t yet understand.
Her apartment was on the fourth floor of a weathered building tucked into a neighborhood that reeked of despair. From the outside, it looked like any other decaying relic of the era—gray walls, cracked windows, graffiti scrawled like curses across brick. But the inside…
The inside was far worse.
A world unto itself—and a pitiful one at that.
The walls bore the skin of neglect, flaking in pale, brittle sheets. The floors were worn, scarred, and stained. Curtains hung like ghosts of what they once were—faded, torn, and surrendering to time.
“Let me show you around,” Scarlett said with a smile, oblivious to the revulsion twisting my face. She took my hand and led me from room to room, unaware I was barely containing the urge to flee.
The living room was an overstuffed mess of books, clothes, and trinkets piled in corners with no rhyme or reason. The furniture looked like it had been scavenged from a battlefield—worn, sagging, mismatched. The sofa I was invited to sit on felt like adying beast beneath me. Threadbare rugs covered parts of the floor as if trying to hide the damage beneath.
A tiny kitchen was tucked away in one corner, its appliances humming like angry bees. The only piece that seemed remotely intact was the bed, and even that appeared exhausted from years of use.
I glanced around, incredulous.This is how people live now? By choice?
I had once slept in beds draped in velvet, feasted beneath chandeliers, bathed in stone tubs large enough to drown in. And now… this. A dingy box in a rotting tower.
Scarlett didn’t notice my disdain. “Please, settle yourself,” she said, motioning to the lumpy couch. “You must be starving. Want some mac and cheese?”
I blinked. “Mac? Who is Mac?”
She burst into laughter, the sound like sunlight breaking through clouds. “It’s not a who. It’s a what. Macaroni and cheese. Pasta.”
“Ah. Pasta.” I nodded, and I understood—barely.
She pulled a covered bowl from a white storage box—perhaps an “icebox”—and peeled back a thin film. Then, she opened a small black-and-silver cupboard and pressed a button.
The moment the machine lit up and began to hum, I flinched.
Scarlett turned, clearly amused. “Relax. It’s just the microwave. I made the mac and cheese last night,” she grinned. “I promise it won’t kill you.”
I gave a stiff nod, swallowing my confusion.Microwave.Another strange term in this baffling era.
A ding sounded, and she retrieved the now-steaming bowl, added a metal fork, then tore off a sheet from a dangling roll of thin paper.
“Here you go,” she said brightly, thrusting the bowl toward me. “And a napkin. Sorry, I don’t have anything fancier.”
I stared at the bowl of noodles swimming in a bright-orange sludge. It looked like melted wax or alchemical runoff. Still, I picked up the fork and cautiously prodded the mess before biting my lip.
The taste was… chemical. Velvety in a way that was unnatural. Thick, cloying, and eerily smooth. My body recoiled instinctively. I gagged, pushed the bowl aside, and wiped my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I said hoarsely. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
Scarlett didn’t seem offended. She sat beside me, tucking one leg beneath her. “That makes sense. You were in a lot of pain earlier. Are you feeling better?”
I turned to her and looked at her.
She was petite, but there was strength in her stillness. Her eyes, warm and brown, reminded me of riverbanks at dusk—clear, calm, honest. They held no guile. Her wavy hair fell down her back in chestnut streams, catching the light with every movement. She smelled of honey, lemon, and something faintly floral, like petals crushed under sun-warmed stone. There was sea salt, too, hidden in her hair like a memory of waves. Something wild. Untamed.
Her voice was soft but not weak—a quiet conviction threaded through each word. And when she smiled, it wasn’t the kind of smile meant to charm or seduce. It was meant to soothe, to anchor. It softened the harsh corners of the room, making the walls feel less like cages.
Then she blushed under my stare, lowering her gaze to her lap, her confidence retreating behind flushed cheeks.
I cut through the silence.
