The streets feel like they're breathing, full of grime, life, and desperation. Every corner hides someone with a story, a wound, or something to hide. The air smells like smoke, sweat, and rust, and the sounds are a constant clash of angry shouts, laughter, and the harshness of survival.

  I keep walking and she keeps following me.

  The bar's light spills from the doorway, casting jagged shadows on the streets outside. It's not hidden; no secrets to it. Just a place where people can drink, fight, forget. It's loud in there—louder than I care to deal with. But it's familiar.

  I step inside, immediately hit by the thick scent of cheap liquor and the muffled sounds of rowdy chatter. A few mercenaries in the back, some travelers nursing drinks, a man hunched over the counter, clearly out of his mind. I make my way past them, my boots heavy on the cracked floor.

  The bartender glances up when I approach, but he doesn't question me. He knows me, and I don't need to explain myself.

  "You're late." He says, voice rough from too many years behind the bar.

  "Had things to do."

  He doesn't ask more. Just slides a scrap of paper toward me, which I shove into my pocket without a word.

  I start to turn, but I feel her presence. She's close. A little too close.

  Her voice stops me before I can walk away. "You do this often?"

  I turn to her, eyes narrowed. "Do what?"

  "Come here. Like it's nothing. You know the kind of people who come to places like this?"

  I don't answer right away, just take in the way she's looking around. As if she's not used to it, as if she's trying to figure out why the hell she's here. It's almost amusing. But I don't laugh.

  "I'm not any different from them. Easy to talk for someone so lucky."

  She tilts her head, unreadable, but she follows me when I start walking again.

  We don't talk much after that, and I don't mind. The silence between us is... comfortable, in a way.

  But the sound of her keys remind me of something.

  The memory slams into me like a punch to the ribs.

  Flashback.

  I'm younger. Smaller. Weaker.

  And I'm on the ground.

  Boots press against my back, my face against the dirt. Laughter above me, sharp and cruel.

  "She's got a mouth on her, doesn't she?"

  "I like 'em feisty."

  A hand grabs my hair, jerks my head back. My scalp burns.

  "You're nothing, girl."

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  I should not forget what kind of people these officers are.

  The brothel isn't far, but the atmosphere changes when we step inside. It's quieter here, with thick velvet curtains hanging in the doorways and dim candlelight flickering in the corners. The air is heavy with perfume, and the sounds—whispers, laughter, soft conversation—are almost soothing.

  I head straight for the back, where the madam's always waiting, like she's expecting me.

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  "Didn't think I'd see you tonight," she says, barely glancing up.

  "Needed something," I respond, keeping it vague.

  The officer hangs back, still looking uncomfortable in this space. I know she's watching everything, her gaze moving from person to person. I can feel the tension in her shoulders.

  The madam's eyes flicker to her, an assessing look. "You bring company with you now?"

  I shrug. "Not my problem."

  She just raises an eyebrow, then nods toward the locked cabinet in the corner. I walk over, taking out the case I came for. The instruments inside are mine—tools for work.

  And then—

  One of the girls slides up to her, trailing a finger down the sleeve of her coat. "Well, aren't you new?"

  I feel her stiffen.

  The girl smirks, pressing closer. "You ever been here before, sweetheart?"

  The officer freezes.

  I laugh. ''Don't mind her Alice. Looking good as always.''

  She glares at me, but I'm already walking out. "Hurry up, sweetheart," I mock. "Wouldn't want to get lost."

  ''Don't call me that, my name is Lilith Castellan.''

  ''Musa, nice to meet you sweetheart lily.''

  She follows, still stiff, still silent.

  I don't stop smirking until we reach the hideout.

  The walk back is quiet, but the weight of her presence doesn't leave me. There's something about her—something that feels out of place.

  It's just another forgotten place in the Wasteland, but it's mine. I push the door open, stepping into the dim light. The familiar scent of rust and oil settles in my lungs, grounding me.

  And then—

  A voice.

  "Musa."

  I still.

  The warmth in that voice—it cuts through me.

  And then I see him.

  Sitting at the table, waiting. Father.

  I don't think. I move.

  He barely has time to open his arms before I crash into him, arms wrapping around his solid frame. He lets out a soft chuckle, pressing a hand to the back of my head.

  "You're back," he says quietly, rubbing a hand across my hair.

  "Kid," he murmurs. "Missed you."

  I don't answer. Just hold on tighter.

  He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes scanning for something—injuries, exhaustion, trouble. The usual. Then his gaze flicks past me.

  And lands on her.

  His expression shifts. Not hostile, just... cautious.

  "Who's this?"

  I don't let go of him. "No one."

  "You bring people here now?"

  Lilith does not say anything.

  Father studies her for another moment before sighing, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "You and your strays," he mutters, but it's soft.

  "I thought you only bring rats here, but that's a new kind of stray."

  She doesn't stay long. She shouldn't.

  When the door closes behind her, the silence feels too heavy.

  Father sighs, hands on my shoulders. "Moo," he mutters. "What the hell are you doing?"

  I step back. "Work."

  The cage rattles.

  He doesn't speak as I move, but I feel him watching. The scalpel catches the light, the rat squirms under my grip. The scent of blood thickens.

  Then, finally—

  "This isn't good for you."

  I don't stop. "Nothing is."

  His voice tightens. "You know that's not what I mean."

  He exhales. "I just don't want you going around alone. Meeting people like that officer."

  My hands still.

  She's nothing. She's no one.

  The silence stretches longer than usual, and I feel his eyes on me, weighing me down.

  "Princess... You can't keep doing this. You know the danger of meeting strangers, especially people like her."

  He nods toward the door, where Lilith's presence still lingers in the back of my mind. My chest tightens, the words he said landing heavier than I want them to.

  "You don't know what those officers are capable of. You should remember who they are. What they did to us."

  The mention of them—of them—sends a sharp chill down my spine, and I freeze, gripping the edge of the table, feeling the sharp metal edges digging into my palms. The memory claws its way back up from the dark corners of my mind, unbidden and unforgiving.

  He sees the shift in me. Sees the way my face pales, how I go rigid, how my body betrays me. He doesn't push me further. But the reminder is enough.

  "You haven't forgotten, have you?" he mutters, quieter now. "The past doesn't just fade, Musa. It never does."

  My vision blurs, and I try to hold myself together, but it's like trying to trap a storm inside of me. His words drag me back to that day—the blood, the screams, the officers with their cold eyes and their unfeeling hands. My parents.

  Gone.

  And the pain... always there.

  "Go," I choke out, the word slipping from my lips in a broken whisper.

  Orid pauses, and I feel his hesitation behind me, but I don't want to turn around. I don't want to see the concern in his eyes. I don't want him to see me like this.

  The room feels too small. My heart's racing, each beat pounding against my chest like a war drum. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

  "I said go, Orid"

  For a long moment, he doesn't move, and my heart hammers harder, faster, in my chest. The room is too small, the walls closing in, the air too thick. I can't breathe. I can't think.

  Finally, Orid does what I tell him, slowly stepping back. I don't hear the door shut behind him, but I feel it—his absence. The silence swells around me, thick, heavy.

  She laughs suddenly—a low, jagged sound that doesn't fit with the stillness. No I laugh. But it's not really me, is it? The laughter echoes in the room like it's coming from a different place altogether, not from her, not from a person who should be laughing.

  Her head whips to the side, eyes wide, unfocused. There's no recognition in her expression. She stares at the wall like it's about to speak to her, her face twitching with the strain of trying to understand.

  "Musa," she whispers to herself, but her voice is hollow, distant. "Musa, right? What's Musa? That's who you are... isn't it?"

  Her hands clench into fists. Her knuckles are white, and her entire body shakes with tension, her breath coming in short gasps that seem to get sharper with every second. She stumbles forward, but her feet don't quite meet the ground right. She's walking but not really there.

  Her eyes dart around the room—too fast, too erratic. The walls, the air, the floor—it all moves around her. It shifts, warps. She grips the edge of the table, her nails digging into the surface, but it's not helping. Nothing helps.

  "I'm not crazy," she mutters to herself, but it sounds like she's trying to convince herself, not anyone else. Her voice cracks again, but she laughs. It's louder this time. Manic.

  "Not crazy. Not crazy. No, no, no... I'm fine," she says, but her words are slurring now, tangled in her throat. "I'm—"

  Her eyes blink, and for a moment, everything stops. But then her gaze snaps back, sharp as a knife, fixated on something unseen. She's staring at the corner now, her head tilting, confused. It's like she sees something, something real, but it isn't there.

  The laughter cuts off suddenly.

  "Why're you laughing?" she asks the empty room, her voice trembling with a strange, mocking tone. "What's so funny?"

  Her gaze shifts down to the table. The rat is there, squirming in its cage. She leans in, eyes narrowing as her breath hitches.

  "You're pathetic," she mutters, a twisted grin pulling at her lips.

  The scalpel is in her hand before she even notices, its cold metal gleaming in the dim light. She doesn't hesitate. She slices.

  The rat's body twitches, the blood pooling in the cage. Musa watches it for a moment, her laughter returning—high-pitched and unsettling—before it falls away just as quickly.

  She stumbles back, her hands shaking as she grips the edge of the table for balance. The world spins, but she can't focus on it. She falls to her knees, a shudder running through her.

  She's silent now, breathing unevenly, the weight of her thoughts suffocating her. Her eyes flicker around the room again, distant, as if she's looking for something that's never going to be there.

  The silence stretches.

  And then, her voice, a rasping whisper: "Nothing new. As always."