"What do I do?" I ask.
"First, you stop wallowing. Second, you find that damn kitten. Third, you get proof that the developer's been sabotaging businesses." She ticks the items off on her fingers like it's a grocery list. "And fourth, you tell Maris you love her in a way that doesn't sound like a caveman wrote it."
"I don't know how to do any of that."
"Lucky for you, I do." Renna grins. It's not a kind expression. More like a predator spotting prey. "And I know some people who can help."
By noon, my rowhouse is full of strangers.
Renna brought them. A goblin named Tick who works as a courier and knows every back alley in town. Two café regulars, both retired librarians, who apparently have experience with "light espionage" from their activist days. And a teenage kid with bright green hair who Renna introduces as "the tech guy."
They're all talking at once.
"The gala's in two days," one of the librarians says. She's spread blueprints across my floor, pointing at rooms and hallways with a pen. "Security will be tight, but catering staff won't be vetted as carefully."
"We can get uniforms," Tick adds. His voice is high and raspy, like gravel scraping metal. "I know a guy who does laundry for the event company. He owes me a favor."
"What about Maris?" the other librarian asks. "Does she know about this plan?"
"Not yet," Renna says. She's tuning her lute, plucking strings with casual precision. "We'll bring her in once we have the details sorted. No point worrying her until we know it'll work."
I don't like that. Feels wrong, planning behind Maris's back. But I don't know how else to reach her.
If I go to the café now, she'll shut me down. Tell me she's handling it. Build another wall between us.
This way, I can show her I'm serious. That I'll fight for her. For us. For the life we could have if we stop being afraid of it.
"So what is it you need me to do?" I ask, my voice cutting through the overlapping chatter.
The room goes quiet. Every head swivels in my direction—the librarians mid-gesture, Tick with his mouth still half-open, Renna's fingers frozen on a lute string. Even the green-haired kid glances up from whatever he's typing on his glowing screen.
I stand there, feeling too large for the space, too rough for whatever delicate plan they're weaving. But I need to know where I fit. What part I play in getting Maris back.
"You're the distraction," Renna says. "Big, intimidating, impossible to ignore. You'll draw attention while the rest of us search the office."
"I don't want to be a distraction. I want to help."
"You are helping." The green-haired kid looks up from his laptop. "Trust me, dude. You walk into that gala, everyone's going to be staring. That's exactly what we need."
I hate it. Hate the idea of being the spectacle again, the thing people gawk at, point at, whisper about behind raised glasses and polite smiles. The thing that draws eyes not because of who I am, but because of what I am. An orc. A curiosity. A former fighter standing in silk and pressed fabric like some kind of performing animal dressed up for a party trick.
It scrapes against the old scars. The ones that don't show on my skin.
But if it helps Maris, if it gets her café back, if it keeps her dream alive, if it means she doesn't have to face this battle alone, then I'll do it. I'll be the spectacle. I'll be the distraction. I'll be whatever they need me to be.
Because she matters more than my pride.
"Fine," I say, the word rough in my throat. "What do I have to do?"
The tuxedo doesn't fit properly.
Not even close to fitting, really. Not in any way that makes sense for a body like mine.
The fabric strains across my chest, pulling tight over shoulders built for swinging hammers and lifting fallen timber, not for gliding through ballrooms full of champagne and string quartets. The collar bites into my neck like a too-small muzzle. The jacket itself feels like it's actively trying to split apart at the seams, as if it knows it wasn't meant for someone my size and is protesting every moment I keep it fastened.
The shoulders are too narrow. The sleeves stop halfway down my forearms. The pants are tight in places pants should never be tight.
I stand in front of the mirror in Renna's apartment, trying to understand how humans wear these things without suffocating.
