He doesn't move.
He doesn't acknowledge me.
He just lies there, massive and immobile, his forehead resting in the padded cradle, his arms hanging limp at his sides, and I can see the way his entire upper back is locked up, the way the slate-gray skin along his left shoulder blade is darker, almost charcoal, the golden networks beneath pulsing with dangerous instability.
I clear my throat.
Nothing.
"Hi," I say. My voice sounds small in the heavy, heated air, swallowed by the volcanic warmth. "I'm Tamsin. I'll be your therapist tonight."
Still nothing.
Okay. Cool. Silent treatment. Great start.
I walk around the table, assessing, because this is what I do—this is my job, and I'm good at it, even when the client is a seven-foot-tall gargoyle who apparently communicates exclusively through brooding silence. The extended wing is the most immediate problem. It's stretched out across the furs, the membrane taut, the bone spurs at the joints vibrating slightly with tension. I can see the calcification spreading down the leathery skin, a grayish discoloration that looks like frost creeping across a window, like his body is slowly turning itself into a monument.
His left shoulder blade is worse. The slate-gray skin is darker there, rigid, and the crystalline tracery beneath is glowing a deep, unstable orange, pulsing erratically like a warning light on a machine that's about to catastrophically fail.
This is bad.
This is really bad.
I've worked on athletes with severe muscle tension, construction workers with chronic pain, office drones whose shoulders were so knotted they could barely turn their heads without wincing.
This is worse than all of that combined.
I take another breath—the eucalyptus is making my sinuses tingle, making my eyes water slightly—and my palms are already sweating from the heat, from the adrenaline, from the sheer absurdity of standing in front of a gargoyle and thinking,Yeah, I can fix this.
Okay. You can do this. You need to do this. Five thousand dollars, Tamsin. Five thousand dollars and you can pay rent and eat something other than ramen for the next three months. You can do this.
I walk over to the supply station built into the volcanic stone wall, stocked with oils, towels, and what looks like a small arsenal of massage tools that probably cost more than my entire apartment. I grab a bottle of high-heat volcanic oil—the label says it's designed for "extreme temperature tolerance" and "non-human dermal application," which is both reassuring and deeply concerning.
I also grab a hair tie from my bag. My hair is already sticking to the back of my neck from the heat, damp with sweat. I twist it up into a bun and secure it with the pen I keep in my pocket. Professional. Efficient. Totally not panicking.
I strip off my hoodie. Underneath, I'm wearing a black tank top and leggings. The tank top is already clinging to my skin, damp with sweat. I roll my shoulders, shake out my hands, and try to channel every ounce of professional competence I possess.
I pour a generous amount of volcanic oil into my palms. The oil is thick, almost gel-like, and it smells like burnt sage andmineral stone, like something ancient and powerful. I rub my hands together, warming it up, and then I approach the table.
I place my hands on his upper back.
The texture is shocking.
It's not skin. Not in any way that my brain recognizes as skin. It's cold—not just cool, butcold, like pressing my palms against a granite countertop that's been sitting in a freezer. Rigid. Smooth in some places, rough in others, with that faint grain that makes it feel more like stone than flesh. There's no give. No warmth. No softness.
I press harder.
Nothing.
I shift my weight, leaning into the pressure, and I feel the faintest resistance—not from his body yielding, but from my own hands struggling to find purchase on the stone surface, like trying to massage a marble statue.
This is going to be a problem.
I've worked on clients with dense muscle tissue before—bodybuilders, powerlifters, guys whose backs felt like slabs of beef wrapped in leather. But this is different. This isn't muscle. This is literal stone. My hands are sliding across the surface, unable to penetrate, unable to make any kind of impact.
I pull back. Reassess.
Okay. New plan. More pressure. More leverage. More... everything.
