I sigh.
“Fine.”
She freezes. “Wait. Seriously?”
“One drink. One hour.”
She shrieks like she just won a planetary lottery. “YES. Victory. Your boobs are going outside!”
I regret everything.
I lockthe door behind me with fingers that shake like I’m defusing a bomb. The hallway light feels too bright. My boots are too loud. Everything about this feels exposed.
Cynna, of course, walks like she owns every corridor.
“You’re doing great,” she chirps, already halfway to the lift.
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You opened the door. That’s a win. I’m counting it.”
The ride down is a metal coffin. My stomach flips at every floor ding. My skin prickles. Every nerve on alert. Cynna hums beside me, oblivious or pretending to be. She’s good at that—letting me have my panic without making it weird.
I glance at her.
She’s not watching me.
She’s watching the numbers tick down like they mean something.
And just that tiny grace—her pretending not to notice how I’m vibrating apart—makes my throat burn.
The doors open. We step into the crowd.
And I feel it.
That first full-body hit of beingoutside.
The smells—oily street food, over-perfumed air recyclers, the sharp sting of ozone from a security drone drifting overhead. The sound—voices layered in too many languages, laughter too close, footsteps coming and going without rhythm. Thepressureof being seen.
I try not to flinch.
Cynna loops her arm through mine.
“Focus on me,” she says quietly.
I nod.
And I do.
Her voice, steady. Her stride, confident. Her scent—spice and skin oil and something floral she’ll never admit to buying. I match her rhythm. Let her lead.
We reach the lounge in four minutes flat.
It’s smaller than I expected. Warm light. Rounded edges. Music that hums like it’s trying not to intrude. The entrance is tucked between two shops—one selling knockoff tech, the otherhawking sweets shaped like cartoon creatures. It smells like candied grease.
Cynna grins at me. “You made it.”
“I haven’t died yet.”
