It's tedious, mind-numbing work—exactly what I need.
When I'm focused on numbers, I'm not thinking about Cain.
Not reliving the nightmares.
Not drowning in the fear that still lurks at the edges of my consciousness.
The work gives me something to hold onto, a purpose beyond mere survival.
And slowly, I start to feel like myself again.
Not the self I was before Cain—that woman is gone, probably forever.
But a new self. Stronger. More resilient. Shaped by the fire I walked through but not consumed by it.
I'm in the office late one afternoon, squinting at a particularly confusing invoice, when a knock on the door makes me look up.
A woman stands in the doorway.
She's young—maybe nineteen or twenty—with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and too much makeup caked over what looks like a bruise on her cheekbone.
"Sorry," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know anyone was in here."
"It's fine. I'm just doing some paperwork." I set down the invoice, studying her more closely.
The bruise is definitely there, poorly concealed beneath layers of foundation.
And there's something in her eyes—a wariness, a fear—that I recognize all too well.
"I'm Ripley," I say. "I don't think we've met."
"Jade." She hovers in the doorway like she's not sure if she's allowed to enter. "I work here. Dancing."
"Nice to meet you, Jade."
She nods, still not moving.
Her eyes keep darting around the room, like she's looking for escape routes.
Another thing I recognize.
"Are you okay?" I ask gently.
The question seems to startle her. "What? Yeah. I'm fine. I just—" She stops, pressing her lips together. "I was looking for Tawny. Someone said she might be here."
"She stepped out about an hour ago. Said something about picking up supplies." I pause, weighing my next words carefully. "Do you want to wait? I could use a break anyway."
Jade hesitates.
I can see the war playing out behind her eyes—the desire for connection fighting against years of learned distrust.
I know that war. I fought it myself, not so long ago.
"Okay," she says finally. "Just for a minute."
She perches on the edge of a chair across from me, hands clasped in her lap, shoulders hunched like she's trying to make herself smaller.
The posture is painfully familiar.
