"Like a femme fatale designed by a committee of circus performers and serial killers."
"So, perfect."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
I take a deep breath—two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out—and move toward the door. My hand hovers over the handle, hesitating.
The Ruthless sector of Hard Knot Academy is exactly what it sounds like: a death sentence dressed up as education, where survival is currency and weakness gets you killed. Or worse.
I've been trapped here for three years. Three years of fighting, fucking, bleeding, and trying desperately not to become the monster everyone expects me to be.
Spoiler: I became the monster anyway.
It was easier than staying human.
The post office is seven blocks away through contested territory, past the fighting rings where Alphas break each other for sport, through the market where stolen goods change hands faster than STDs, across the plaza where they hang bodies from the fountain as warnings.
It's a fucking war zone.
And I'm about to walk through it in ballet shoes and a smile that's more threat than invitation.
"Ro," I say quietly, my voice losing its manic edge for just a moment. "What are the odds I make it to the post office and back without incident?"
A pause. Then: "Insufficient data to calculate accurately. However, given your history, I'd estimate approximately?—"
"Never mind. I don't want to know."
"Probably wise."
I pull open the door, letting the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor spill into my room. The scent of the Ruthless sector hits me immediately: blood, concrete, ozone from faulty wiring, and beneath it all, the sharp tang of Omega distress.
So many broken girls in this place.
So many of us who survived things we shouldn't have.
My fingers find the letter in my bag, holding it like a talisman. Like proof that somewhere out there, someone knows my name and hasn't run screaming yet.
I step into the corridor, pink hair bright against institutional gray walls, mismatched eyes catching the flickering lights, ballet shoes silent on concrete.
A giggle escapes—sharp, slightly unhinged,mine.
Two girls flatten themselves against the wall as I pass, their eyes wide with recognition. They know who I am. What I am.
The crazy bitch with pink hair and a body count.
The ballerina who dances in blood.
The girl who writes letters to ghosts.
I wink at them. They flinch.
Delicious.
"Ro," I murmur, quiet enough that only she can hear through the receiver against my chest. "I know I'm probably more insane than functional at this point."
"Correct."
