She Doesn’t Look Up Right Away — Not Until She’s Sure Shiv’s Breathing Hasn’t Shifted. The

“Mm,” Irene hummed, a noncommittal sound. She didn’t look surprised. If anything, she looked like someone slotting a puzzle piece into place. “Sounds about right. Most people who end up here didn’t mean to. Or didn’t plan to stay.”

She watched him over the rim of her own mug now, steam fogging faintly between them.

“The lounge has always had gravity. Even before it was Obsidian,” she said, voice a little lower, like the walls might be listening. “Something about that corner keeps pulling strange things toward it. People. Things that look like people. Half-forgotten debts. You know.”

Or maybe he didn’t. But if he was still sipping the tea like that—carefully, like someone who grew up taught to test for toxins before taste—then she figured he knew enough. You can't ignore the magic.

At his question, she let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” she said. “There’s many.” Her eyes flicked up again, sharper this time. “Some just want somewhere quiet. Some want to make deals. Some want to drink blood out of crystal stemware and pretend they’re still civilized.”

Irene reached over to nudge the tin of tea leaves back into place on the shelf.

“You’ll learn which is which pretty quick.”

Then, almost as an afterthought—though her tone was too even to be casual—she added, “You ever need help knowing who not to serve… you can ask.”

“Neither. I simply needed a change. I wrote to some people who I hoped would be helpful to know in a new town, and received a response from someone who lives here.” Jaya said, leaning back on the counter before Irene set down the mug.

He took the mug gratefully, cooling the tea a second longer than necessary. An old habit, one he was barely even conscious of at this point, taking in the scent for any clear signs of known poisons. His mother was a careful woman, and no potioneer worth anything would let their children roam free without ingraining the basic instincts to avoid being hurt by any rivals. All he could pick up was chamomile, and a note of apples. He took a sip as he considered what she said.

“I've never tended bar before, no. I was only trying to purchase the apartment above the lounge. The owner was clearly sick of being here, and wanted to be rid of more than the apartment. I got a very good deal on the whole place.” He paused, the mug an inch from his mouth. “I... had not considered the more nocturnal customers. Are there many, in this town?”

Irene didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t rise to meet the bait like so many did — like Briar wanted her to. She just kept her eyes on the other woman, the corner of the worn label finally peeling back beneath her thumb like paper tired of keeping secrets.

“For fun?” she echoed, tone flat enough to skip.

She set the jar down with a soft clink. Not careless, not reverent — just exact. As if even glass had a place, and she wasn’t in the habit of misplacing things.

“I mend things that don’t belong to me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I walk places people don’t think to look. I make sure what’s buried stays that way.”

A pause, but not because she was searching for anything. She just wanted the silence to sit there for a moment, thick and quiet and full of things unsaid.

“I’m not here to amuse you,” Irene added, finally lifting her gaze fully to Briar’s. There was no heat in it — just clarity, cool as the bottom of a well.

“And I don’t trade in curiosities.”

She stepped back behind the counter, rolling her sleeves down one at a time, slow and methodical like it was the end of something, not the beginning.

“But you asked. So that’s it. That’s your favor.”

Her hands moved to the ledger again, pen flicking once to mark a line through something unseen, invisible to everyone but her.

“No refunds. No rerolls. If you wanted stories, you should’ve asked for something easier to return.”

Briar's confused by all the obfuscation; ledger this, ledger that. Goodwoman Stephens is brave indeed, dealing with this sort of orderly chaos. Were she to start her own public facing endeavor she'd not last the week before she was caught trafficking in sleep aids because some neck-tied hoglet a city over wanted his cut of the coin. Of course should the police come for her they'd all be quite dead in short order; food for the root, but that would beruin the point; the girl is overcautious.

Still, whether it's the 1720s or the 2020s she supposes a pig's only ever good for carving.

"But asking games are such fun!" She muses. "Tch. You've so serious a tone. I'll wager too that you're quite the stickler aren't you? How about this, as I've no need for any materiel; Tell me, what do you do for fun? Outside this shop I mean. Otherwise, I simply won't believe you know how to have it. That's the favor I ask."

Irene watched Shiv’s hands as they worked, and something in her chest went still.

It wasn’t just the methodical precision, the quiet reverence they carried for the steel — it was the way they did it. Like it was more than habit. Like it was memory. The kind that sits in muscle and marrow and doesn’t need language to surface. For a moment, just a brief flicker, her vision blurred at the edges and her father’s hands ghosted over the ones in front of her. That same calm, practiced rhythm. That same kind of quiet focus. Her dad used to say a blade didn’t need to look mean to do damage. It just needed to be respected. Shiv worked like that — like someone who understood what tools could become in the wrong hands, and carried them anyway.

When they smiled, she did too. Small. Unthinking. Like a reflex, not a decision.

She reached for the knife when they offered it, and when they pulled it back just slightly, she didn’t bristle — just raised one brow in mock offense. It was the kind of gesture someone else might’ve earned a sharp reply for. But not Shiv. They were one of the few people who didn’t set her teeth on edge just by existing. Maybe it was the way he never pushed. Never tried to draw blood just to see if she’d flinch. Just anchored himself in the space beside her like it didn’t cost anything to stay. Like someone had told him to watch over her, and he’d decided to take that promise seriously.

She took the blade properly when he passed it a second time and ran her thumb over the newly sharpened edge. A clean hiss of a breath followed — barely audible. “That’s perfect,” she murmured, and meant it.

The blade sat in her hand like it remembered her —like it forgave her for the neglect. Irene ran her thumb along the spine, not the edge, tracing the familiar nicks and wear without looking at it. Her gaze moved on Shiv, steady now, the way you look at someone you’re still trying to figure out but already trust more than you should. “I’m not used to being looked after,” she said, voice quiet but not brittle. “Not anymore. Feels strange. Like wearing someone else’s coat. But... I think I could get used to it. Maybe.” The last word landed softer than the rest, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Then, quieter still, eyes still on the knife, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m not easy to kill. You won’t have to mop anything up.” She glanced up then, something easier behind her eyes. “But I’ll leave a note. Promise. Or a text.” A pause, then, because saying thank you outright always caught like glass in her throat, she offered the closest thing she had — “You’ll know where to look.”

Though unspoken, there is a clear look of recognition towards another item inside Irene’s bag as its set on the table:. a small pouch of dried sigil chalks. Not one of those mundane, painfully-fake brands sold in Crow and Chalice. The real kind of magic their recurring companion carried in her travels, skillfully wielding it in a way that always gently stimulated their hunters' mark and completely captured their attention--

Fortunately, Irene brings their focus back to work before Shiv could further reminisce.

“Definitely not in worst shape...” Shiv parrots under their breath as they take the blade in hand. The hunter gingerly runs their thumb across the edge and lets it snag skin. Clean but dull. This edge should be sharper; it should have sliced their flesh and drawn blood by now. Shiv nods. “Definitely not in worst shape but still handled with great care. Good. I will be sure to do the same.”

Knife sharpening is not a chore but a practiced ritual imbued in Shiv’s being as their hands move on autopilot:

Cloth doused in just enough honing oil prepares the blade. Whetstone, darker coarse grit. Twenty-two degree angle. Moderate pressure. Slide forward, ten times. Sharpening steel. Rinse, dry with separate cleaner handkerchief. Whetstone, light fine grit. Stroke, ten more times. Yes, Appa, ten exactly, I know-

Plenty of meticulous steps to fill the silence, the sharp sound of blade on whetstone leaving room for Irene’s dramatic pauses. “If you ask me, it’s easier to hunt something that is real than not, something that can be understood and given a name. Hunting what refuses to be known or named is much more difficult. Practically impossible”, Shiv scoffs thinking back on the intangible nightmares that torment them. Oh what Shiv would give to stab or shoot or even claw their way out of one of those. “It’d be responsible to say that you should rest and get shut eye when you can, yadadada. But, c’mon. Look at me. Who am I to lecture you about not sleeping?”

“I won’t stop you from training late at night, alone or otherwise. But.” They offer the sharpened blade back to Irene, only to pull it back slightly when she goes to reach for it. Shiv softly smiles. A small jest. “Just be sure to let someone know in case things go south and we need to follow a trail. A note on your fridge or whatever. You have my number.” Shiv offers the blade once again. Earnestly this time.

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”

Irene’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to pass for one if you weren’t looking too hard. “She’s definitely got her own methods,” she murmured, sliding the parcel gently off to the side like it might shift on its own if given the chance. “Half of what she says feels like riddles until you’re knee-deep in it and realize she gave you the answer three weeks ago.”

She didn’t comment on the sleep. Just nodded, once—like she understood more than she was willing to say. Like maybe sleep didn’t come easy on her end either. At the mention of the cabaret, her gaze flicked back up, steady. Not judgmental—just observant. She knew the name. Everyone did, if they’d been in Port Leiry long enough to learn the map beneath the map.

“Mm,” she said again, a catch-all sound that meant, I’ve heard of it, that tracks, careful in there. But she didn’t say any of that out loud. Just moved to straighten a jar on the shelf with idle precision.

She wasn't the first Phial she'd seen come through. They move quiet, but they move together. Irene never met one who didn’t have at least three others watching her back.

She let that settle, then turned back, gaze sharp beneath the tired.

“You ever need supplies on short notice—real ones, not dreamless tea—I keep some stock off the books. You just have to ask.”

She didn’t say it with warmth. But she said it with clarity. Which, for Irene, was as close as you got.

"There's a good poppet," she says, air affectionate, and flashing a smile to Irene. "Kiri's methods are a madness all their own, I understand."

To the next question she offers only a shrugging motion at first before continuing; "Night shift, mostly. I've my own troubles finding sleep. Or had, at the time."

Sleep does come easier now; with the death root being fed and the sun going down in the sky every day she's no longer stuck in the cyclical horror of an endless winter's day. The strange dreams, not her own, have also been ferreted out; a situation she is dealing with, or planning to, slowly.

She smiles again. "I work down at the Satin Cabaret now, playing my wiles and wares there."

A knowing wink. Phial is a federation of self-motivated witches; relatively free of dogma or overbearing code. Support eachother, and keep eachother secret and safe; it is a rule which even she has no qualms abiding by. If Kiri trusts this woman here at Tumatarau, so will Briar.

Irene didn’t flinch at the shouting. Didn’t wince when his voice cracked or when the fury bled through the glass and hit her like a slap. She just stood there —still as the trees lining the street, soaked to the bone, watching the storm take him inch by inch. She waited, silent, until the only sound left was the drum of rain on the hood and the soft hiss of his breath shaking in his lungs.

Then she stepped back.

Not much —just enough that the shape of her in the window grew smaller, less immediate. Her eyes didn’t soften, not quite. But something in them shifted, like a door creaked open somewhere behind her ribs, and inside was a kind of tired knowing that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with too many nights just like this.

“You’re right,” she said finally. Flat. Even. “I don’t get it. Not your version. I’ve got my own.”

She adjusted the collar of her coat with one hand, pulled the hood back over her head. Her voice stayed steady, low and sure, even as the rain beaded on her lashes. “But I know this, no one is coming to save you if you don’t want to be saved. No one can.”

There was no judgment in her tone. Just truth, clean and sharp.

“You want to rot out here in the wreckage? Fine. That’s your choice. But don’t spit in the face of every hand that tries to pull you out when you’re the one gripping the rust like it’s gospel.”

She turned to go, boots sucking in the wet earth, shoulders set like armor.

But before she disappeared fully into the downpour, she paused—just once—and looked back over her shoulder, rain carving clean lines down her face.

“You want things to change?” she said, barely audible over the hiss of rain. “Then you start with you. No one else is going to do it for you.”

"I'm not-" He stops himself because what the hell else would it look like when he's out here like this? But that's not the point of this. He isn't sitting here hoping that he dies, but if he survives this without the truck, without even trying to save the last piece of his old life, then what was the point of going forward at all? His eyes get hot and he knows that means tears are coming, and he turns away angrily as he tries to compose himself.

"So then I'll fucking die!" he shouts back at her through the window. "I didn't ask for anyone to fucking stop for me. They've been passing me by for the last ten years when it mattered, so why the fuck does anyone care now?" Kevin glares at her through the window, thinking her high and mighty for judging him when she has no idea what he's been through. How many times people have turned their back on him because he didn't have an easy answer or made things too difficult, or blamed him for not trying hard enough, and she dares to stand there and do the same now that people have finally developed a conscience?

Kevin slams his palm against his steering wheel and shakes his head. "You don't fucking get it. People like you never fucking get it," he grumbles and he wipes away the tears that have started trickling down his face. "If you're so certain I'm dead, then you should get out of here. Wouldn't want you to be dumb about it."

Irene didn’t look up right away.

She just nodded once — a little jerk of her chin — and dragged another fry through the pool of ketchup on her tray. Casual, like it wasn’t anything. Like letting someone close was muscle memory instead of a thing that still made her ribs itch.

But when the other woman settled across from her, tray clinking softly against the table’s metal edge, Irene let herself glance over. Quick. Subtle.

And something tugged.

Not recognition, not fully — but that odd prickle you get when a face lingers in your periphery a second too long, like a dream you almost remembered. There was a kind of unsettled weight around her shoulders, not loud, not dramatic, but familiar in the way Irene had learned to clock in strangers. A restlessness. Like she was trying to fit into skin that didn’t feel like hers yet.

It made Irene’s jaw tighten.

The kind of familiar that made her instinctively brace — not for danger, but for the part of herself that might start hoping for connection before she could stop it.

She didn’t stare. Wouldn’t let herself.

Instead, she dropped her gaze back to her food. Took a sip of her milkshake to buy herself a second. Vanilla and too sweet. It clung to the back of her throat like a childhood she didn’t have.

“Yeah,” she said after a beat, voice quieter now, more of a murmur. “Place fills up fast when the air stops biting.”

The patio was lit in a way that made everything seem a little softer than it probably was — string lights looping lazy over the tables, dogs barking and kids laughing like the world hadn’t tried to chew them up yet. Irene watched a lab mix skid across the pavement chasing a tennis ball and felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not quite. But close.

Her eyes flicked back up, briefly.

“You new to the area?” she asked, not because she cared — or, at least, that’s what she told herself — but because the question hung there anyway. Like it wanted to be spoken.

She popped another fry into her mouth. Chewed slow.

Something about the girl’s presence pressed quiet against the noise in Irene’s chest. Not gone, not even dulled — just… held, maybe. For a moment.

She nudged the tray a little toward the middle. A silent offer. A peacekeeping gesture. Irene didn’t share food. Not usually. But this wasn’t usual.

She still hadn’t asked her name. Didn’t want to ask why she looked like someone from a dream Irene might’ve had once. Didn’t want to know if she’d show up in another one later.

“Try the fries,” she said instead, finally glancing back up — just long enough to meet her eyes. “They’re the only thing here better than the milkshakes.”

A beat.

“And the milkshakes are pretty damn good.”

This is one of the things she's had trouble getting used to since her turning. The hunger, an appetite far bigger than the one she used to have, and for things far heavier than what she used to eat. And as she looked around the crowded place, she lamented once more her new affinity for greasier, heavier food.

But she had needed to get out of the apartment, even if somehow, it felt slightly better, less tight, less suffocating. The walls no longer collapsing on her, the silence no as deafening as it was when she first moved there. She imagined it had to do with a redheaded wolf and the hangout place they've asked her to visit, the wolves that hang around there that can't see beyond her wolf. That don't know of the past life she carried before this.

She thinks of the blonde girl that's a new familiar face around the cafe. And a smile finds her lips all over again, as she looks down at the trail in her hands. But she shakes herself out of it, looks around once more and finds no empty seat.

Sky had almost given up, resigned to sitting somewhere on the floor or go back and asked for it to be packed to go when she catches the girl's voice, and she looks at her with a grown, and surprise in her face. She looks comfortable in her table, but Sky takes the invitation anyway, sitting opposite the other, trying to make herself small. "Thanks... I wasn't expecting this to be so packed."

Irene watched as the little creature was hoisted back onto Juniper’s shoulder, head tilting slightly in that quiet way of hers — like she was filing something away, not for judgment, just understanding. “She’s better trained than most customers,” she said dryly, a flick of something faintly amused in her voice. “Still, smart to keep her on your good side. I’ve seen people do worse damage with less motive than an empty stomach.”

She glanced at the basket again, making a quick mental inventory of the contents before nodding. “It’ll be safe here overnight. Counter’s got charms enough to keep anything from nosing in where it shouldn’t.”

At the mention of disorder and charm, something in her expression shifted — not quite a smile, but the hint of one in the corner of her mouth. “Some of the chaos has charm,” she allowed. “The rest just makes restocking hell.” Her gaze moved to a shelf where two nearly identical jars sat side by side, one faintly crooked. She didn’t move to fix it. “But I get what you mean. Places like this remember people. It’s better when they’re a little wild.”

Juniper’s next words slowed her hands. Not stopped them — Irene always kept moving, even when listening — but the gesture she’d started smoothing the corner of a label became more deliberate. She didn’t interrupt, just let the compliment settle in the space between them. There was no outward shift in her face, not much that could be called softness. But there was a kind of stillness that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Maybe the kind people give when something lands close to a wound, even if it doesn’t cut.

She shook her head slightly at the offer, the faintest scoff under her breath — more at herself than at Juniper. “Pretty sure Stephens would have my head if she came in and caught a customer sweeping the floor,” she said. “Might accuse me of conscripting labor again.”

But there was a flicker in her tone now — dry affection, maybe, or something like it. The offer had landed. Irene just didn’t always know what to do with kindness unless it came in the form of clean inventory or a labeled drawer.

“Still,” she added, eyes flicking briefly back toward Juniper. “It’s a good offer. And I appreciate it.”

A pause, then, “Don’t worry about it. Most of this I can catch up on in the morning. Just the usual close — lock the till, count the chamomile, wonder how it got this late again.”

She glanced toward the windows, where the light from the street painted streaks through the misted glass. Her voice dipped quieter, almost distracted: “Place likes to stretch time once it’s quiet.”

If she meant it to be a warning or just a remark, it wasn’t clear.

Then, she turned slightly, shoulders shifting, one hand already reaching for the last list to double check. “I’ll be out soon,” she said. “Walk’s better with company. And fewer surprises.”

Not a favor. Not even exactly an invitation.

But it was enough.

She laughed as she picked up Sage by scruff and returned her to her shoulder. “That is a very good point. She is surprisingly good about not eating things she shouldn’t. But it’s been a long day and I owe her a treat for sticking through it without being a pain. Best not to tempt a young and hungry stomach.” She rubbed her cheek against the furry creature affectionately. 

She nodded when the other offered to keep the basket overnight. That would free up her arms more which was never a bad thing. “A little disorder gives places like this personality. And there is no accounting for personal taste when it comes to organization. Either way it’s lovely and well taken care of.” 

She could tell Irene wasn’t much for conversation. Whether that was personal preference or professional habit she didn’t know. But there was clearly no hostility in the few words she spoke. And Juniper would be remiss if she didn’t even silently acknowledge the others' delicate care for those around her. It wasn’t personal, it wasn’t profitable. It was just her own good nature. Juniper liked that. An apothecary run by someone without care for their fellow man was an apothecary run by the wrong person. 

“If I’m overstepping, feel free to tell me off or charge me more; but I do feel awful extending the end of your day, especially when you have been so accommodating. If there is anything I can do to shave time off that 15 so you can get home faster. It would be my pleasure. Four hands make lighter work than two.” She wasn’t sure if Irene would take her up on the offer. It was an odd one, she wouldn't blame her for being off put. Not many people these days are willing to work for the simple pleasure of making something easier for someone else. But this place reminded her of her grandmother, it made her feel warm and it was nice to see old practices still holding up.

jessica alexander

merci de créditer (c) pau.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Irene blinked as the girl stepped out —mud-slicked, bloodstained, and stitched together with a kind of too-bright smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Irene didn’t move right away. She just stood there in her long coat, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other cradling a half-empty thermos of coffee gone cold.

Her gaze did what it always did—took in the shape of the girl, the uneven breathing, the way her hair was carefully arranged like a curtain. Irene didn’t need to see what was behind it to know what was there.

She’d seen that look before. In mirrors. In alleyways. In morgues.

The question made her tilt her head a little. A gym. It was such a soft, almost laughable request, spoken with the kind of desperation that tried to pass for casual. Irene didn’t laugh.

“Nearest gym’s about five miles and three lifetimes from here,” she said, voice flat, but not unkind. “And even if you found one, they’d probably want a membership card. Or at least shoes that don’t look like they got in a fight with the terrain and lost.”

She took a slow sip of her lukewarm coffee, eyes not leaving the girl’s face. The park light above them buzzed faintly, casting shadows under her eyes, giving everything that washed-out glow that made the world feel just a little too thin.

“You’re not from around here,” Irene said, not a question. Just a fact laid out neat and quiet between them.

Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just observant. Just practiced.

She shifted, letting the pause stretch a moment too long before offering, “There’s a community center down past Willow and 9th. Showers. Heat. No one’ll look too hard if you don’t give them reason to.”

A beat passed.

“You hurt anywhere bad?” Her eyes flicked to the girl's arm, where dried blood clung to torn fabric. “The kind that’s not healing like it should.”

Another beat.

Then, in that same even tone—quiet enough not to scare, sharp enough to be heard—she added, “You’ll want to watch what trails you take out here. Woods can be… unpredictable. Things stick to you.”

She didn’t say what things. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she shifted back just enough to clear the doorway, giving the girl space to pass. Her gaze lingered a moment longer on the edge of that hair curtain, but she didn’t press. Not yet.

“I’m Irene,” she said finally, like it mattered. “If you’re lost, I know my way around.”

She gave a slight nod, like she wasn’t just talking about directions.

open: to cor residents where: overlook park

   the journey to get to the city wasn't exactly how camila thought it'd go. she was new to town and didn't know a thing about where to go or who to see; if there even was a plan? either way, she was quite literally a mess. having to hitch hike in the middle of the night, and leave everything she once knew behind wasn't easy. she could still feel that...thing biting her neck. and she could still see the bodies of her parents. she also missed her...their family.

getting lost in the woods however, was the icing on top of the cake for camila as she wasn't exactly the 'hiking' type. she almost always relied on....her, to guide her through on camping trips. with no source of light, camila had managed to trip and stumble down a rather steep incline which led to a few bruises and scratches — which seemed to be healing? too freaked out to think of that, she shakily took the paper towel & ran it under the tap. 'the dried blood and mud on her clothes wouldn't budge, but she could at least clean up her face' she thought to herself.

camping out nearby, she heard knocking on the bathroom door. "i'm...i'll be out in a minute!" she said aloud, as the park washroom wasn't the most ideal place for her to try clean herself. but with her money running low and the car she had to abandon on the highway, she'd make do. putting a fake smile on her face, she used her hair to cover her neck before she's unlocking the door.

"sorry, i'll get out of your hair - uh. do you know where the nearest gym would be?" camila asked quickly, trying not to draw too much attention to herself.