She leaves after that. I don’t blame her.
I finish tying the dress and brush out my hair. No makeup. Petru says I look “more innocent” without it. I stare at my reflection. Pale face, dark eyes. I don’t see innocence. I see a weapon carved out of obedience.
I walk the halls alone. Guards posted at every corner, pretending not to notice me. They always look, though. Even if they try not to. Being human here makes me rare. Being Petru’s property makes me dangerous.
I reach the viewing chamber and wait by the side wall. The floors gleam with obsidian tile, polished so bright I can see my face in it. Velvet drapes hang from the ceiling. Everything in here whispers money. Money built from blood and bones.
I cross my arms, ignoring the cold.
I don’t know what’s worse—being paraded in front of gang leaders who want to barter for me, or being ignored completely. One makes my skin crawl. The other makes me forget I ever existed.
But the worst part?
Hope.
Hope’s a knife. And I’ve been carving it into my ribs for years.
Every once in a while, someone new shows up. A merc. A smuggler. Someone with fire behind their eyes. And I think—Maybe this is it. Maybe they’ll see me. Maybe they’ll help.
They never do.
The last one barely looked at me. Just grunted and left. Maybe he was smart. Maybe he saw what this place does and didn’t want to catch the infection.
I don’t even know what I’d do if someone offered freedom. I talk a big game. But truth is, I’ve been caged so long, I’m not sure I remember how to fly.
Still. I wait.
Because there’s a part of me—a stupid, stubborn little flame—that refuses to go out. I keep it buried deep, beneath the layers of silk and submission. I feed it with every small act of rebellion. Every time I roll my eyes when Petru isn’t looking. Every time I let Silpha see I’m not broken.
That fire? It’s all I’ve got left.
And someday, it’s gonna burn this whole place down.
CHAPTER 3
TRAZ
Glimner’s poison doesn’t hit you in the lungs—it settles in your bones.
The Spine rises like a scar in the middle of it, all jagged metal and gleaming ego. Petru’s fortress hasn’t changed—still trying too hard. Security cameras like spider eyes, armed guards itching for movement. Doesn’t matter. They know who I am. I don’t knock. I walk in.
The guards don’t speak. One of them twitches like he wants to. Thinks better of it.
Good choice.
Inside, it’s hotter. Louder. The bassline of a synth band I don’t recognize thumps against the walls like a pulse trying to escape. Lights dimmed just enough to pretend it’s atmosphere, not just hiding the filth.
I know the way.
They’ve dressed the place up tonight—gold trim on the doors, draped banners of black with the Bleached Skull emblem stitched in bloodred thread. Subtle as a blaster shot to the chest.
The Lounge opens ahead, and Petru is exactly where I expect him—on his mock-throne, drink in hand, surrounded by orbiting flattery. His grin widens when he sees me.
“Traz. You glorious bastard.” He rises like he’s welcoming a god.
“Petru.” I nod once, keep walking. “You’re still breathing.”
“Thanks to you.” He laughs too loud. “You never disappoint.”
