Zoey didn’t sleep at all that night. She lay staring at the ceiling, her thoughts racing too fast to settle. Maybe it was her nerves. Or maybe it was the weight of what she had done—post-post murder clarity, as she bitterly called it in her head. She didn’t want to think about it. About Leo, Trevor, everyone she went to school with.

  And yet, their faces kept flashing in her mind, one after the other. Even Mrs. Watersin. The old bitch had been a pain in the ass, always lecturing everyone about dress codes and tardiness. But… being blown apart? That was a bit excessive, even for her.

  Then there was the thing Savannah fought. The details White-Bullseye shared were fuzzy, but they’d been enough to leave her reeling. The biggest thought that consumed her now was something she couldn’t quite let go of: Savannah had powers?

  Was that why she was barely at school? Why she always looked so drained, like she hadn’t slept in days? Savannah was out fighting monsters, and she didn’t even tell her!

  Zoey clenched her fists at the thought, heat rising to her face. She was going to kick Savannah’s ass when she got better. Well… maybe just a punch or two. Because, seriously, what the hell? Who just casually keeps monster fighting a secret from their bestfriend?

  Her chest tightened again, though, as she remembered White-Bullseye’s words about Savannah’s condition. Savannah was alive, but she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Zoey sighed, turning onto her side, the blankets bunching around her. She was angry, sure, but beneath it all, she was just glad Savannah was still here.

  Knowing sleep wasn’t an option, Zoey decided to do something—anything—to distract herself. There wasn’t a TV, which really sucked. If she had a phone, she’d scroll endlessly or play a game. Hell, at this point, she’d even read a book to stave off the boredom. But lying in bed wallowing in sadness was exhausting in its own way.

  She sat up, glanced at the I.V. in her arm, and made a decision. Tugging it out, she half-expected an alarm to blare or for someone to rush in. But nothing happened. Instead, two things immediately caught her attention.

  First, she’d grown used to afterimages behind her arm, as if they had been there her whole life. Second, the spot where she’d pulled the needle out healed instantly. That was new.

  “Cool,” she muttered, staring at her arm in fascination.

  No alarms, no guards busting down the door. Maybe she wasn’t a full-blown prisoner after all. She stood up and stretched, her afterimages trailing her motions in a mesmerizing dance of light. Despite everything that had happened, she felt… good. Energetic, even.

  She hopped lightly on the balls of her feet, just to shake out her limbs—but the “light hop” turned into something else entirely. She shot straight up, her body moving faster than she thought possible, and smacked into the ceiling with an audible thud.

  “Ow,” she thought reflexively, but it didn’t actually hurt. Not even a little.

  She blinked, floating there in surprise. She felt weightless, like she was in zero gravity. Any movement sent her drifting around the room.

  “Okay, so walking is out,” she muttered under her breath as a misstep sent her bouncing into a wall. She winced—not from pain, but from the noise. She didn’t want to bring attention to herself.

  Still curious, she experimented with how to move, flailing at first before figuring out that swimming motions seemed to work best.

  Once she steadied, she swam slowly through the air, her body twisting and turning like a fish. Her afterimages followed her every motion, creating an iridescent light show that made her think of a rainbow-colored koi gliding through the water.

  And yet, as awe-inspiring as it was, another strange thought crept in: Why am I okay with this?

  She wasn’t panicked, not even a little. Flying—floating—whatever this was, felt entirely natural, like her body and mind just needed to experience it once for the understanding to snap into place. It wasn’t like learning. It felt more like… unlocking something that had always been there. Just like the auras she saw before, it all just clicked once a simple reference was made.

  It was cool, sure. But it was also unsettling.

  She flipped lazily onto her back, staring at the ceiling and tracing her fingers through the glowing trails that lingered in the air around her. “What the hell am I?” she whispered to herself.

  Getting the answer to what she was was more important than ever. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt a weight deep inside her. What that something was, she had no clue. Maybe the training tomorrow would shed some light. Help her discover a way towards that door.

  She wasn't nervous about tomorrow. Zoey was good with people—especially boys—so she figured it’d be a walk in the park to carve out a space for herself. And if she had to fight? Well, with these new abilities, she’d be strong, right? Strong enough to crush anyone who dared to try her.

  She smiled to herself at the thought but quickly shook her head. “Relax, Zo,” she muttered under her breath, a small chuckle escaping her lips. “You’re too pretty to fight needlessly.”

  That “Strong enough” line made her laugh a little harder. It sounded more like something Savannah would say, not her. Sure, Zoey could fight—her win-loss record wasn’t bad—but she preferred using her words and other clever means to handle situations. Fighting wasn’t her style unless it absolutely had to be.

  She shook her head again, trying to clear the spiraling thoughts. “Why am I automatically thinking worst case? I’m cute. I’m fun. Let’s just see where this goes.”

  Still floating lazily around the room, she let out a long sigh, as she thought about her home. Officially, she assumed she’d been pronounced dead back home. Honestly, that was fine with her. It wasn’t like she had much waiting for her there anyway.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “No strings, no ties, no baggage,” she said quietly, watching her afterimages dance around her as if they agreed. It wasn’t exactly freedom, but it was a fresh start.

  And that? That she could work with.

  ———

  4 days later…

  She could not work with this.

  Hands submerged in lukewarm water, the sound of dishes clinking echoed through the apartment as Savannah scrubbed with the kind of aggressive focus that came from pent-up irritation rather than any real love for cleanliness.

  In this house, the rule was simple: you clean what you dirtied. Normally, a fair, even welcoming philosophy. But lately? That rule had quietly become Savannah’s full-time job while Sandra and Tony slid into the lifestyle of two college kids on an endless spring break.

  Not that Tony didn’t have excuses.

  He was in college—technically. Studying crafting arts, finishing his program, and already lined up for a trade school transition into being an electrician. Ambitious, resourceful, and somehow still had the energy to party, work, and romance her mother like he didn’t have bills or essays waiting.

  Honestly? Savannah could almost respect it.

  Almost.

  What she couldn’t respect was the fact that he was inviting friends over tonight. That familiar tension pressed down on her shoulders, the kind that whispered they’re gonna judge the house. They’re gonna talk.

  Because they always did.

  They’d whisper about her mother’s clothes. Her flirty laugh. Her loud bedroom.

  “Did you see the way she looked at that one guy?”

  “Is she really dating him? He looks twenty.”

  “Poor daughter. God, imagine growing up with that.”

  Savannah gritted her teeth and rinsed a plate.

  So, she did what she always did.

  She cleaned.

  Not for herself. Not for them.

  But so when people talked—and they would—they couldn’t say the place was a dump. Couldn’t add “dirty” to their list of insults.

  If her mother insisted on playing house with a boy and acting like the queen of dysfunction, then Savannah would at least make sure the stage was polished.

  She smelled the smoke before she saw her.

  Sandra waltzed in, a cigarette dangling from her lips and the faint scent of cheap perfume trailing behind her. She didn’t even pause—just grabbed a spoon from the drawer.

  “Oi! I just cleaned that,” Savannah snapped, arms still elbow-deep in dishwater.

  Sandra took a lazy look at the sink. “You sure did. Thanks.”

  “Screw you,” Savannah sneered, slamming a plate into the drying rack with more force than necessary.

  Sandra just grinned and leaned against the counter. “What time is everyone coming?” Savannah asked, drying her hands.

  “Oh? You planning on joining the festivities?” Sandra asked, tone faux-innocent.

  Savannah narrowed her eyes. “Why you say that like you’re hosting an orgy?”

  Sandra laughed—actually laughed. “You really do expect the worst from me.”

  “You train people to expect the worst.”

  Sandra slipped a lighter from her hip, where it had been tucked snugly against her underwear. With a practiced flick, a flame sparked to life, trembling beneath the spoon she held steady.

  “Indulging in old habits?” Savannah sneered. “This isn’t ‘92.”

  Sandra shot up, eyes sharp. “You didn’t mention your brain being rattled. But I had you at seventeen. ‘92 is your grandmother’s era. May her soul rest in hell.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Savannah, is there a kink you haven’t—”

  “Oi! Shut the hell up!”

  Sandra opened the freezer, grabbed a tub of ice cream, and popped it open without a second thought. She dove her spoon in. “You’re dramatic,” she said between bites. “Like your father.”

  Savannah rolled her eyes and turned back to finish draining the sink. The faucet gurgled before going quiet.

  Sandra grabbed a carbonated soda and cracked it open. The fizz hissed like static. Her eyes flicked over to Savannah. “Looks like your bruises are fading.”

  Savannah blinked. “What?”

  “You’re not wearing bandages. Looks like your skin’s healing up.”

  “Oh… yeah,” Savannah said, caught off-guard. “Didn’t think you noticed.”

  Sandra shrugged as she leaned against the fridge. “I just didn’t want people thinking I beat you. That kind of drama draws way too much attention.”

  There was a pause.

  Then—

  “That would be…” they both said in unison—

  “Annoying.”

  Sandra smirked and pointed with her spoon. “You’re like my personal Siri.”

  Savannah let out a small laugh. “Or maybe I’m just… ya daughter?”

  Sandra shook her head. “I like digital android better.”

  She walked off, hips swaying, headed straight for the bedroom again.

  Savannah groaned, wiping the counter clean. “Can you at least mop?!” she shouted after her.

  Silence.

  Then the sound of the tv getting louder.

  “Oi, fuck you!” Savannah called out toward the bedroom, her voice sharp, loud enough for the neighbors to probably hear.

  No response.

  Just the muffled hum of the old ceiling fan and the fading crackle of Sandra’s soda can as it rolled across the floor.

  Savannah sighed, turning back to the kitchen.

  Almost done.

  Fifteen more minutes of scrubbing, straightening, and muttering under her breath, and the kitchen finally looked decent.

  Well—decent enough to withstand judgment from Tony’s frat friends or Sandra’s rotating door of weirdos.

  The bedroom/living room came next. She glanced down the hallway. Her mother had completely dodged the question earlier, either because she wanted to annoy Savannah, or because she genuinely didn’t know what time the guests were coming.

  Probably both.

  “Screw that old whore,” Savannah muttered, dragging herself back into motion.

  The rest of the checklist flew by.

  Bathroom scrubbed.

  Fat orange cat fed and lazily flopped across a sunlit corner.

  Dusting. Rearranging. Airing out the weird smell coming from behind the couch.

  With Tony out of the apartment, she briefly considered using Manifestation to speed things up…

  But her core still pulsed with fatigue.

  Not pain.

  But… fragility.

  She was healing.

  Slowly.

  But she wasn’t dumb enough to test her luck. Not yet.

  Finally, everything was in order.

  She peeked into her mother’s room—Sandra snoring like a chainsaw. Perfect.

  She returned to her makeshift bed-couch, sat cross-legged—grateful it didn’t hurt as much anymore—and closed her eyes.

  Meditation.

  For the Veytharis, it was as sacred as battle. A way to recalibrate the body, mind, and soul.

  If she was ever going to fully recover—if she wanted to atone for Red Hollow—she needed to be sharpened.

  And Zoey… still no word on her waking up. Which meant Savannah still had time to figure out what the hell she was going to say to her. If she woke up.

  Ten minutes passed in silence. Then Savannah opened her eyes and looked around. She was home, wasn’t she? Why not feel like it?

  She swiped the tv remote and scrolled through mothers Spotify until music filled the apartment with the sound of the oldies. Not her usual flavor, but the classics had charm.

  She slid open the glass balcony door. The crisp city breeze rolled in, stirring the curtains.

  She breathed deep.

  Sat back down.

  Closed her eyes.

  Her energy flowed, steady and warm this time. The stream inside her didn’t hurt.

  It moved.

  And for the first time in days, Savannah smiled.

  Then—

  Knock knock.

  She ignored it.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Louder.

  Then came the yell.

  “Savannah! Get the damn door!”

  “Oi! Oi!” she shouted, gritting her teeth. “What the hell?”

  She pulled herself up, spine aching in protest, and limped to the door.

  Opened it with fury already radiating from her.

  And was met with a stupid, smug grin.

  Lucenzo. Once again out of uniform, wearing a black coat with dark jeans. His white air forces shone a bit too bright. Sleeves rolled back to show off his tattoos.

  He stood there, arms crossed, eyes full of mischief like he knew he was about to get smacked.

  Her green eyes narrowed, glowing with restrained rage.

  “…The hell do you want.”