Qia

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5a3e85...|...outfit}

After she spoke, a smirk that could only be described as duplicitous contorted the features of the man in front of her. Yet, the effect it should have brought—suspicion, a warning prickle—never arrived. Instead, Anissa’s mind supplied an easy explanation for it, something that felt perfectly reasonable. He wasn’t mocking her; this was just how some people smiled when they…well, when they encountered someone with her level of audacity, perhaps. Sylas’s next few statements seem to confirm just that.

“You’d have a hard time explaining that to your boyfriend,” he said, nodding his head towards River before taking his handkerchief and slipping it into his pockets. “Even someone as skilled as you might struggle explaining the monogram.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she replied with no doubt in her tone, “So, the monogram? Cute, but not exactly a crisis.” Besides, even if River were her boyfriend and he cared about something like a borrowed handkerchief, it would have said a lot more about his insecurities than Anissa herself. And really, when had small, unnecessary kindnesses ever been common in her life? Little gestures like this weren’t traps by default, surely, just based on being rare enough. So, why poison a harmless thing with suspicion? Especially when it came from someone who radiated as much confidence and, frankly, trustworthiness as Sylas. Her gut, once again, told her the smile had been nothing more than a test of her wit, and her gut, for once, didn’t seem worth arguing with.

“Pardon the interruption,” an amicable voice said, and Anissa turned to find Heath with that small, apologetic smile that didn’t ask anything of her. “Anissa,” he continued gently, “I just want to let you know that Anatoliy got his guitar back. So you don't have to worry about that.”

Hearing this, a wave of relief washed through Anissa. Leaving the instrument had felt strangely wrong, almost like deserting a living thing that understood its owner deeply. Yet, the thought of taking it herself had also seemed like crossing a line she’d already blurred by touching it. Therefore, knowing it was back with Anatoliy, without her direct involvement in its return, meant one specific wrong had been corrected. It wasn't the forgiveness she truly desired, nor did it erase the memory of the encounter itself. Still, the simple absence of one more potential problem was undeniably pleasant.

“Oh, thanks, Heath,” Anissa replied, putting far more genuine gratitude into those two words than they could normally hold. She nearly asked if he’d said anything about her as well, but stopped. She doubted Anatoliy would have described her kindly, and not knowing was probably better.

“Evening, Sylas, nice to see you're doing well now,” Heath then said, turning his attention to Anissa’s current companion. “Is it okay if I sit with the two of you? Have both of you eaten anything yet?”

Anissa looked down at her abandoned plate at the mention of food, nudging her plate a little closer, as if proximity alone might convince her appetite to cooperate. With Heath’s question hanging there like a polite challenge, she finally broke the cookie in half and took a bite, grateful that it was still just as warm as when she'd chosen it. Sugar flecked her lip, and she chased it with a sip of the punch she’d also abandoned. The blunt sweetness did what it always did—grounded her, even if only by millimetres.

“I’m working on it,” Anissa answered, tapping the remaining cookie half with a fingernail before placing it onto a napkin and offering it to Sylas. Meanwhile, Sylas’s flat “sure” in reply to Heath barely registered in her mind; she interpreted it as typical Sylas behaviour, not the warning signal that it was. She gestured towards the empty chair beside them. “Please, sit down.”

Heath had just settled into the seat when Sylas’s fingers lightly touched his hand. "I almost forgot, Blair was looking for you earlier. She said it was an emergency and looked pretty frantic." Sylas shook his head before Heath could ask. "She wouldn’t tell me anything, just said she needed you. You should go see what she wants."

Instantly, Heath’s posture shifted forward, and then he was rising before the chair had even finished scraping backwards across the ground. Anissa watched, a little flabbergasted, as Heath vanished swiftly into the shifting crowd.

Well, that was…strange, she noted to herself, a light frown on her lips. Yet, now that the thought crossed her mind, did she seriously believe that the kindness Heath had shown her was something special or anything tuned just for her? Maybe it was simply how he interacted with everyone. Better yet, for all she knew, this Blair person could be his girlfriend or something, given that she didn’t really know enough about Heath to say otherwise. And strangely, that realization made it easier to hold onto the compassion he’d offered her. It now felt less like a personal debt owed and less like a warm light that might sting later when it inevitably faded.

"So… you were telling me your thoughts on this new leader," Sylas prompted once they were alone again, steering the conversation firmly back to the subject that still held his focus. In turn, Anissa tipped her head, weighing how much to give, then decided to be plain because, well, she had no reason not to trust the man with a gaze that was not unkind, but was unmistakably hunting something.

“Well, I already agreed that he was attractive, but I guess he’s also a little…” The word snagged, something in her wanting to lock the rest behind her teeth. The walk she’d taken with River felt like a sealed room—his near-miss with the water, the way he said he wasn’t good at people, her admission about not knowing her father and the lies she fed her mother to keep the peace. Rain, pastries, the long way around. All of it had felt theirs. Protecting that was the entire point of her retaliation against Anatoliy’s dismissal. She’d practically bitten him for merely pawing at it based on his reaction.

Still, the urge to hold still and the urge to give pulled against each other. It wasn't a suspicion of Sylas. If anything, it was the opposite. Trust slid in like a warm tide, softening the corners of her guard. This feeling didn’t dramatically rearrange her world; it simply made sharing a small piece seem acceptable. He feels safe, the thought drifted. It’s okay to share a little. Her fingers unconsciously sought the seam of her glove, rubbing the stitching back and forth in a nervous habit. She could give Sylas the basic outline of their meeting, she decided, the shape of the encounter, while fiercely keeping the intimate details locked safely away inside that private room. The core would remain hers and River’s alone.

“…awkward,” Anissa finally finished, an almost involuntary smile touching the corner of her mouth. “But honest. Really deeply honest.” She paused, recalling the moment clearly. “He said something that could have sounded like a pickup line, except he immediately looked like he wanted to punch himself in the face for letting it slip out.” The memory of his mortified expression was oddly endearing to her because that particular moment perfectly captured River’s genuine nature, his discomfort more revealing than any smooth talk could be.

“I know you mentioned thinking he’s probably the dominant type,” she continued, her tone thoughtful. “But honestly? It’s difficult to see him acting that way around me, at least.” She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “I was the one who chose to keep talking, to walk further. And he respected that, kept his distance physically the whole time.” She emphasized the point. “He matched my walking speed without making a big deal about it, and he didn’t crowd me.” She looked directly at Sylas. “You know… things like that. It didn’t feel like he was trying to lead or take charge of the situation between us.”

Anissa let out a slow breath. “There were some… weird things that happened, though.” Her voice lowered slightly, her mind rearranging the event in such a way that the truth of it remained unmarred without revealing too much of herself. “When I made a joke about the gods right beside him? Actual thunder rumbled over us, and the surface of the lake… I definitely remember it moving in an unnatural way.” The memory sent a small chill through her. “Which tells me, if I’m interpreting it right, that someone powerful is probably keeping an eye on all of us here. But I’d bet he’s watched the closest of anyone. He never actually asked for this leadership role, you know? Poseidon basically just...dumped it on him.” The burden seemed immense and unfairly placed, and Anissa felt the same pang of sympathy she’d felt when River had told her all this.

“But anyway…that’s genuinely all I can tell you. There’s absolutely nothing happening like you suggested between us.” As if to prove the point, Anissa glanced over her shoulder to locate River in the crowd. She spotted him standing slightly apart with a petite, anxious-looking blonde girl. Her eyes, trained to observe details, instantly registered the subtle shifts: River’s previously guarded posture softening, his tense smile fading into a calm expression as he listened to the girl. His whole demeanour radiated attentive concern, a stark contrast to the awkwardness she’d witnessed earlier. Anissa absorbed this snapshot, accepting it as yet another piece of evidence confirming the picture she’d started forming of her newfound friend.

And then she performed a quick check-in with herself.

Was there even the slightest sting seeing him engaged elsewhere? Perhaps a tiny flicker of…something. Not of envy, but simple curiosity about who the girl was and what troubled her (and also...what was with all the flowers on the ground, suddenly?). Yet, that was all. There was no jealousy twisting inside her, no descent into overthinking or insecurity. Seeing him respond this way actually strengthened her earlier assessment. It was proof that he seemed to naturally create space for others when they needed support, despite his own feelings. Good. That was a decent quality in a leader. That was what Anissa told herself.

“Do you see it now? How wrong you were before?” Anissa said, turning back to Sylas. “He's not the dominant type. He helps...everyone. Like he's supposed to.”

---

Location: Table near the bonfire
Interactions: Sylas (@Mjolnir), Heath (@Pristine1281)
Mentions: River, Blair, Anatoliy, Iliana

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#3b9ae1...|...outfit}

Rae’s brows lifted at the “don’t go running off.”
“Where would I even run?” she whispered back, tapping the suitcase Wes had just parked beside her. “Pretty sure you’ve got my getaway vehicle.”

Still, she gave him a small salute, two fingers to her temple. “Take your minute. I’ll be right here.”

As Wes guided Trinity away, Rae exhaled, shoulders loosening the tiniest bit. She nudged her suitcase with the toe of her boot until it sat flush against a nearby log, then planted herself on the edge of the bench, close enough to keep her promise, far enough to give them privacy.

From her perch, Rae couldn’t catch a single word, but the picture painted itself clearly enough. Wes’s palm rested against Trinity’s cheek with a gentleness Rae wouldn’t have believed senior-year Wes capable of. Not the Wes who smirked his way through hallway detentions, flirted with half the cheer squad, and treated rules (and hearts) like speed bumps on his way to the next thrill. Back then, affection had been quick, careless, almost performative, like the roses left in lockers he’d forget to claim or the sloppy kisses at parties he barely remembered the next morning.

What she saw now, however, was something else entirely: steady shoulders, a soft thumb brushing just below Trinity’s ear, and words delivered slowly enough that even without sound, Rae could tell they were meant to land with the woman it was meant for. There was no swagger or showmanship here.

When did the bad boy learn patience? she wondered, feeling equal parts surprised and, if she was honest, relieved. It was strange, watching the reckless grin she once knew settle into an earnest smile meant for someone else, but it suited him in a way she hadn’t expected. Maybe Camp Athens had sanded off the rough edges of his persona. Or maybe losing an arm and gaining a purpose had forced the boy she remembered to shape up into the man she saw now. Either way, Wes Preston had finally learned how to hold something fragile without dropping it, ­and that was a version of him she could root for, even if it tugged a little at old feelings she’d thought long resolved.

The moment Wes turned back toward her, Rae hopped off the log and strode after him, craning her neck to meet his eyes.

"Alright, short shit," Wes teased while scooping back up her bag. "First thing you’re gonna need is a map." He nodded his head in the direction of the map bulletin board on the far end of the field.

“‘Short shit’? Wes, you’re six-two! You call basically everyone short.” Rae gave his elbow a light nudge. “I'm five-five. Textbook average height for a woman, thank you very much.” At the mention of needing a map, she started to lift the neatly folded one she'd taken earlier, but then hesitated. Instead, she slid it into her cargo pocket and patted it once like a secret. Let him lead. It had been a long time since she’d let herself enjoy Wes just… being Wes.

“Oh, my coat,” Rae remembered, doubling back two steps to snag the jacket she’d slung over an empty chair by the bonfire. She shook off a stray ember-spark and draped it over her arm, then rejoined him, matching her shorter stride to his easy pace as they made their way over to the board. When they reached the map board, Wes set down the bag and grabbed one of the pamphlet maps.

"Not sure if there’s any trick to it," he said as he pinned the paper to his torso and started working on unfolding it. Once it was open he stuck the map into Rae’s hand with a smile. "But knowing Andy, there’s probably some magic something involved."

Rae accepted the map Wes offered, her fingers deliberately avoiding contact beyond the necessary brush of paper. You already have one in your pocket, her practical mind nagged. Shut it, she silently retorted, clinging to the simple kindness of the gesture.

Wes’s single arm curved past her shoulder, fingertip landing on the west-side dot labelled You Are Here. The heat of him, always a degree warmer than normal, which was saying something given her baseline, made it suddenly hard to focus on the paper. Rae cleared her throat.

"Ok, so we’re here, and that’s my cabin," he said, pointing to cabin 21, which also, coincidentally, had his name beside it.

“Cabin 21, got it,” Rae murmured, eyes tracking his route across the grid. Sure enough, as she watched, names shimmered into existence within previously blank cabin rectangles, glowing faintly before settling like ink drying instantly. It was seamless, effortless magic. Of course it is, she thought, a mix of awe and exasperation warring within her. Cabin 36 materialized on the display, nestled in a bend of the path. Its position, half-hidden by dense pines, offered only one close neighbour and a direct path snaking down toward what was likely the beach. Quiet. Shaded. Deliciously isolated from the main camp bustle. The perfect spot for midnight tinkering sessions without curious eyes.

"So, anything catching your eye?" Wes asked as he stepped aside, flashing her a smile as he picked up her bag.

“There,” Rae declared in answer, tapping the now-labelled square for Cabin 36. “Thirty-six. Looks perfect.” The words were barely out when the distinct crunch of boots on packed snow sounded behind her. She turned to find a tall figure approaching. He held an unstrung bow loosely in one hand, his coat draped over the other arm. His expression was politely neutral, but his eyes had the look of someone carefully approaching a skittish animal.

“Hi,” he said, voice careful. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but did you say that device is how we pick out where we’re staying?”

Rae’s eyes lit with a particular spark: the let me take apart this toaster and show you its gears spark.

“Yeah, here, let me show you,” she offered, unfolding the map with a snap. She then smoothly stepped around the newcomer's side, positioning herself so he could observe the shimmering grid.

“Okay, so,” Rae began, her fingertip landing on the parchment with precise intent. “See all these blank squares?” She traced the empty cabin slots. “They stay empty until someone physically touches one here on the map or directly on the big board over there, I think.” Her tone had seamlessly shifted into enthusiastic-instructor mode, the cadence quickening with genuine fascination, even though she'd only deciphered the system moments before herself and with Wes’s help. Explaining complex systems was simply her native language, and it was hard not to dive into it.

“The name appears simultaneously in both places, so it’s essentially a real-time, magically linked database except with no servers or lags it seems because, you know, magic.”

Eager to demonstrate the seamless functionality of the map system, Rae pointed toward an unclaimed square: Cabin 32. “Watch this,” she said, her finger brushing against the parchment right over the square. A rippling shimmer spread across the map's surface, and instantly, the words Rae Kowalewski blinked into existence inside the outline of Cabin 32.

Rae froze. A wave of heat surged up her neck, painting her cheeks a bright, flustered pink.

“Whoops! Didn't mean to actually claim that one,” she stammered, her fingers darting quickly to Cabin 36 and tapping it firmly. With a soft ping sound, her name vanished from Cabin 32 and reappeared neatly inside Cabin 36, leaving the first square blank once more. “See?” she added, her voice dropping to a slightly sheepish mutter as she avoided the man's gaze for a second. “Self-correcting. Very… user-friendly interface.”

Regaining her composure, Rae finally glanced up at the tall archer, offering the map toward him in a small, hopeful gesture. “Your turn. Just touch an empty one you like.”

---

Location: Party outskirts --> Near Camp Entrance
Interactions: Wes (@Mjolnir), Idris (@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Trinity

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37...|...outfit}

The man managed a strained smile that didn't reach his eyes, holding Elias's gaze a fraction too long before finally responding to the earlier compliment about the mead.

“Thank,” he stammered out initially, visibly fighting down what looked like a wave of queasiness.“Thank you very much?” The upward inflection made the second attempt sound like a genuine question, prompting a short chuckle from Elias this time.

“Pretty sure I was the one thanking you,” Elias clarified, his amusement growing as he now fully registered the other’s ashen complexion.“You also look like you’ve seen a ghost.” A wry smile touched his lips after he said this, but it faded slightly as his sharp eyes cataloged the greenish tint around the man's mouth and the way his gaze kept darting nervously, refusing to settle anywhere near the bar counter's surface.

Oh. Right. The memory of the rhinestone girl's very public, very enthusiastic anatomy demonstration slammed back into focus. Elias had mentally shelved it seconds after looking away, but clearly, the mead maker hadn’t been so lucky. He tilted the mead bottle in his direction with a tiny, acknowledging gesture.

“Mead helps,” he offered pragmatically. “So does staring directly at anything that isn’t a thigh.” He studied the man’s still-pale face, a hint of rough sympathy breaking through his usual sardonic exterior. “You good, though? Need air, water…. maybe a priest?”

Before he could formulate an answer, however, his attention appeared to snap to the two women he’d been speaking with previously. Elias watched, mildly intrigued, as the other’s eyes darted rapidly between them, his expression shifting from distress to palpable relief. What was that about? he wondered, unable to decipher the silent communication while noting the tension visibly drain from the brewer’s shoulders.

“You two ladies enjoy your night, you hear?” the man called out, his voice regaining its earlier warmth. He punctuated the farewell with a two-fingered salute tapped against his forehead, a gesture so unexpectedly folksy that Elias snorted softly in surprise. Then, the man turned back, extending a hand towards Elias. Elias met it with a quick, firm shake, appreciating the straightforwardness.

“Well, if I never saw a sight like that again, it’ll still be too soon. You been here long? I’m Forest, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, same,” Elias agreed readily, his mouth quirking in shared distaste. “If I never see that again, we're square.” He considered the timeline. “Haven't been here long. Almost an hour tops.” Though time felt distorted – between raiding the buffet with single-minded intensity and then spectacularly fumbling things with Anissa, it could have been minutes or hours. He forcefully shoved the unwelcome thought of Anissa aside; introducing himself was safe ground.

“Elias.” He lifted his nearly empty glass containing the last of his blueberry mead, a new question forming, laced with sincere appreciation and his characteristic dry tone. “And I'm guessing you brewed this yourself, Forest?” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Are you a son of Dionysus, or just dangerously handy with honey?”

---

Location: Bar
Interactions: Forest(@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Blair, Ace, Anissa, Roxxy, Tess

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5a3e85...|...outfit}

“He’s a little too pretty for my tastes. I don’t want a leader. I’m the one in control. Power play is not one of my kinks, and surfer boy over there looks like the dominant type. Only special people get that privilege with me,” Sylas replied with a factual nonchalance that caused something in Anissa’s chest to coil. The way he talked about himself, particularly his views on beauty and dominance, was a little unnerving. It didn’t help that she found herself disagreeing with him as well; if anything, she tended to like people who forgot they were supposed to have either of those qualities.

Perhaps her aversion stemmed from a lifetime of viewing beauty as a carefully constructed defence rather than a birthright. Her mother had treated it as a performance, one Anissa had learned to replicate flawlessly but never truly inhabited. She knew how to dress the part, to paint on confidence like thick eyeliner, but underneath all those layers, it always felt like camouflage. A desperate attempt to dictate how others perceived her before they glimpsed the messy reality beneath it all. Control, similarly, wasn't a kink or a preference for her as it seemed to be for Sylas; it was a survival mechanism. Holding the reins, maintaining distance – these things created a fragile sense of safety, a fleeting illusion of power, sure. Yet, the alternative, that relinquishing of control, felt terrifyingly like shrinking back into a helpless version of herself she’d fought hard to escape.

This wasn't to say she dismissed her own attractiveness (fuck no, she knew the effect she could have and often liked it). But Anissa understood her beauty wasn't the sun-warmed, openly admired kind. It was more phantom than muse, like the intriguing silhouette you weren't sure you truly saw rather than the radiant figure drawing crowds as if they were a spawn of Aphrodite. Even so, being actively admired meant sustained observation, and sustained observation inevitably led to being known. That level of vulnerability, the risk of someone truly seeing past the paint and the performance, had ceased to feel worth taking years ago. Mystery was a whole lot safer, though, she imagined, a bit harder to maintain if you didn’t have anything worthwhile to hide.

Nonetheless, after Anissa attempted to give as much and as little information on River simultaneously, Sylas released a dark, almost sinister chuckle that raised the fine hairs on her arms.

“We both already know I find you beautiful,” he stated. “But I’m also not gullible enough to think you’re a helpless damsel.” The intensity of his gaze here wasn't overtly lustful, yet it still managed to feel profoundly invasive. It was as if his eyes were instruments, peeling back her meticulously applied layers, probing for the creature he suspected and did live beneath. It made her feel stripped, not naked in sunlight but pinned and studied like a rare butterfly under glass. And he admired her not for her vibrancy in flight but for the fragility of her wings and for how easily pressure might cause irreparable damage.

Anissa hated the involuntary urge to squirm that this scrutiny provoked. The irony in that was also quite bitter. Sylas declared she wasn't a damsel, yet he kept pushing that glass towards her, the poisoned apple offered with a knowing smile. And she drank, of course she did. That was the treacherous nature of these kinds of cautionary tales: you rarely recognized the enchantment, the slow-acting venom, until long after you’d ignored all the warning signs and willingly swallowed it down.

That delectable fruit now burned warm and dangerous in her stomach, where it pooled like molten gold. It wasn’t strong enough to make her dizzy since she hadn’t had that much, but combined with her mostly empty stomach, it was sufficient to soften the edges of Anissa’s restraint. So, when Sylas casually mentioned his sister, she felt her eyebrows lift slightly before she could consciously stop them, a spark of genuine curiosity igniting despite herself.

What’s she like? The question almost tumbled out. Anissa caught it just in time, pressing her lips together. It wasn’t just a deflection this time, if she were truly being honest with herself. Family made her curious. Siblings even more so, as she had none that she knew of, even here. And perhaps this gap in her understanding was the cause for these questions about River’s siblings, or Sylas’s, drifting so easily to the surface.

Regardless of her curiosity, Anissa was utterly unprepared for Sylas’s blunt response to her question about River’s deceased half-siblings.

“Nick wasn’t here long, nor did we ever speak. But Liv?” He posed the question rhetorically, a preamble that already felt dismissive. “We were friendly. We shared ideals and sometimes a bed.” He shrugged his shoulders with the same indifference he had when discussing his attraction for River, or lack thereof. Yet, the word bed landed with a dull thud in her chest, softened by bourbon heat but heavy all the same. It wasn’t jealousy at all of his apparent experience, gods, no. If anything, it was the mean little sting of how small he’d made a dead girl sound. Friendly. Ideals. Sometimes a bed. A life collapsed to three neat drawers, one of them left open on purpose.

Anissa had never met Liv (how could she have? The girl was already gone), but she felt the reflexive tug of something like loyalty rise within her anyway.

The dead deserved more than an index card.

It was a core principle, etched into both her journal and psyche during her earliest and most intimate encounters with mortality. When you navigated a world constantly brushing against death, you learned a few essential courtesies:

Straighten the crooked headstone when you pass it. (A silent correction of neglect.)   Leave a fresh lily where the vase has gone dry. (An offering against forgetting.)   Close a stranger’s eyes in the darkened subway car because no one else has noticed he isn’t sleeping.(A final act of dignity.)   And when you speak of someone who can no longer speak back, you use whole sentences. Never labels.(Respect for the deceased in language itself.)

So, the neat little frown appeared before she could hide it, a quick seam between her brows. It vanished, however, by the time Sylas’s gaze returned from wherever it had gone, replaced with that mild, placid interest she wore like another pair of gloves.

As he set the glass back down, Sylas redirected the conversation to its previous topic.

“You are good, you know?” The compliment landed, accompanied by a grin that held all the smug satisfaction of a predator toying with cornered prey. “At this little chess match we’ve been playing,” he clarified, motioning back and forth between them. “But if you’re wanting me to really think Poseidon junior isn’t interesting to you, you wouldn’t keep circling back, asking questions tangentially related to him.” Mirroring his words, his right index finger rotated in a little circle, emphasizing his meaning.

Anissa felt the flush of heat rise in her face at the accusation, though she knew it wouldn’t do to deny it. The man was too smart for that, and she had clearly underestimated him a bit. Either way, her tongue felt faintly sweet; the next swallow came slower than the first.

She reached for the glass.

“I respect the attempt,” Sylas stated, his voice dropping into a lower register that felt strangely intimate amidst the surrounding noise. A sly smile touched his lips, carrying something that might have been actual appreciation if Anissa didn’t know any better. Then, his right hand slid smoothly across the tabletop, bypassing the space between them until his fingers came to rest lightly on top of her gloved wrist. Her gaze snapped up to meet his, finding only calm, dark pools reflecting the firelight.

“But you can trust me.”

The sweetness on her tongue went a little numb, like a lozenge melting slowly. Something in Anissa’s forearm eased under his hand, and when she drew her next breath, it felt unnaturally synchronized with his own rhythm, deep and relaxed. Her reply, when it came, floated out lighter than her usual carefully modulated tone, stripped bare of its usual protective sarcasm or deflection:

“Alright.”

She didn’t pull her wrist away. Instead, in a movement so slight it might have been imagined, she turned her arm just a fraction beneath his fingers, allowing his touch to settle more fully where the steady beat of her pulse thrummed against the thin suede. It felt like a deliberate offering on her part, a point of contact both vulnerable and controlled. Meanwhile, her free hand found the base of the bourbon glass. She rotated it slowly, watching the smudged, berry-clouded imprint of her lipstick shift until it formed a perfect, blood-dark crescent against the crystal.

“I only steal what isn’t mine when I’m nervous,” Anissa admitted, her voice softer now, almost confiding, as a warm smile graced her lips. Then, with surprising gentleness, she slipped her gloved fingers beneath his hand resting on her wrist and turned his palm upward, exposing it. Carefully, she placed the handkerchief he’d given her earlier squarely in its center, taking a moment to align the tiny, embroidered navy ‘S.A.’ so it faced him directly in a silent acknowledgment of its origin. Finally, she closed his fingers over the fabric with a firm press of her thumb against his knuckles.

“So, I’m giving it back. Don’t lose it.”

---

Location: Table near the bonfire
Interactions: Sylas (@Mjolnir)
Mentions: River, Sloane

Realms of Sun & Shadow

---

_{Location: Seluna Temple
Interactions: The guards (@The Muse), Evelyn (@Echotech71), Céline (@Beard Dad)
Mentions: Amaya, Ramona (assumed)}

---

Elara observed the interaction between Orion and the red-haired woman with quiet focus. The woman was currently bent into an excessively deep curtsy, her words tumbling out in a flustered rush of apologies. In turn, she watched as Orion shifted uncomfortably, his posture stiffening at the excessive display of deference. Though his face remained neutral, Elara could tell he disliked being treated with such fearful formality.

“You don't need to bow,” she heard him say in a way that made it clear this wasn't a suggestion but a gentle command. Elara noticed how the woman’s eyes looked up at him with hesitant recognition. Those crimson eyes and pale skin marked Orion clearly enough, yet despite this, the woman had offered her name respectfully. Elara saw Orion register this small act of courtesy, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. That simple gesture of basic human respect seemed to mean more to him than all the fearful bowing.

As the beginning of their exchange seemed to come to its natural end, Elara found her attention drawn to Evelyn's trembling hands once more—how they fluttered anxiously before being pressed firmly against her skirt. The deep curtsy and subsequent embarrassment painted a clear picture of someone still learning where protocol ended and genuine interaction began. This was something Elara understood intimately, however. Memories surfaced of her own early days serving the princess, when she'd clung to proper etiquette like a lifeline. Back then, she'd believed if she could just bow perfectly, speak softly enough, follow every rule exactly, she might survive the treacherous waters of palace life.

She remembered particularly one humiliating moment when she'd tripped over her own skirts during a meeting with the princess. Instead of reprimanding her, Amaya had laughed. It had not been a cruel one either, but one containing genuine amusement. That moment had been one of the first cracks in the formal barrier between them. Soon after, the princess had insisted they drop such formalities when alone together. What had begun as a strict duty had slowly transformed into something far more precious. Real friendship and trust. Even…comfort. The memory warmed Elara still, though it did so now like sunlight on frost: beautiful, but unable to melt what had hardened between them.

A sudden ache blossomed in Elara's chest, hurtful enough that her hands moved without thinking toward her heart. She caught herself mid-motion, fingers hovering before dropping back to her sides. What was the point? No physical gesture could ease this particular pain; the kind that came from absence and memory rather than any bodily wound. She forced her hands to still, clasping them loosely before her as she pushed the emotion down.

The crunch of boots on snow broke through her thoughts. Two figures emerged from between the distant trees, their cloaks billowing dramatically behind them. Elara's first assumption was that they must be approaching Orion, perhaps messengers from the prince. But when they walked right past him after delivering a message about being needed elsewhere, her pulse quickened.

Because their path led unmistakably toward her.

As they drew closer, Elara felt her body tense. Why would they be coming for her? Had Amaya sent them? The possibility sent a bit of hope through her, quickly extinguished by their unhurried approach. Official summons carried more urgency. Still, she straightened her posture as the pair came to a halt in front of her—one clad in dark Lunarian steel, the other in the polished gleam of Aurelian silver and gold. The Lunarian dropped to one knee without hesitation, fist over heart in a gesture of formal respect. The Aurelian mirrored him a beat later, silent but compliant.

The Lunarian spoke first, deep brown eyes looking up at her between strands of tousled blond hair.

“Lady Moonshadow. By order of Their Highnesses, Prince Flynn and Princess Amaya, we have been assigned to your protection. I am Corporal Morris—this here is Corporal Abbott. It is an honor to serve.”

Elara stared at the two guards, momentarily stunned. Protection? Had Amaya ordered this? Or was it Prince Flynn’s doing? Either way, the timing was impossible to ignore, this coming right after she had stepped away, after she had tried to create distance. A tiny bit of suspicion rose in her chest: was this truly for her safety, or was it a polite way to keep eyes on her?

But the doubt didn’t hold.

No. She knew better. After everything that had happened—after the attack, after Sir Abel’s murder—this wasn’t about control. It was about fear. Their fear. Amaya’s, Flynn’s. The kind of fear that came from nearly losing someone and being unable to stomach the thought of it happening again. The realization settled over her, softening the initial wariness. They hadn’t sent guards because she’d done something wrong, she told herself now. They’d sent them because she mattered.

The two guards rose to their feet then, Morris’s focus never leaving her.

“You’ll find two additional guards stationed at your home. We sought you there first, but it seems you rise earlier than expected.” A faint smile followed, then a subtle gesture toward the surrounding area. “From now on, we’ll remain nearby. You’re free to go where you will, and we’ll not interfere unless your safety is at risk. That is our charge.”

The Aurelian, Abbott, gave a quiet nod in affirmation. His steel-blue eyes studied Elara a moment longer, then shifted to the rest of the group—assessing the blight-born woman with a calm, unreadable expression.

Elara opened her mouth, ready to explain who her companions were, to vouch for them if needed.

“She is with me.”

Orion’s voice was firm as he approached, leaving no room for debate. His crimson eyes locked onto Abbott’s, not with hostility, but with a silent assertion of something the guards appeared to recognize because neither man objected.

Then, softer, Orion added, “Was with me. I’m afraid my duty calls me away.” He dipped his head toward the three women in a courtly bow that felt unexpectedly sincere before straightening, his gaze landing on his blight-born companion he’d accompanied.

“But I imagine we’ll meet again soon.”

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#3b9ae1...|...outfit}

After revealing her divine parentage, Wes's face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside him, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth.

“Ah, shit!” he crowed. “You’ll like your brother. Duke’s a pretty chill dude.”

Rae felt the word hit her like a physical blow to the chest. “Brother?” she muttered, the syllable coming out flat and foreign on her tongue. After all, she'd grown up in a house where silence filled the spaces where a father should have been. Where family photos stopped at two people, and where holidays were quiet affairs with just her mom falling asleep on the couch by 8 PM. No mystery cousins ever dropped by, and she had no stories about uncles or aunts. It was always just the two of them moving through life like a self-contained unit. The Kowalewski girls against the world, with their mismatched coffee mugs and work schedules taped to the fridge. Solitude had been her normal, her safe space, predictable as all of the wiring diagrams she'd memorized by age twelve.

But she had a brother now? Some stranger who shared her blood and maybe her fire, but none of her history?

Her mind raced through alternate versions of her life, one where she'd grown up with a sibling to split the chores with and to roll their eyes at their mom's terrible jokes together. Would she be different? Less prone to disappearing into projects for days? Less likely to startle when someone touched her shoulder unexpectedly?

Rae shook the thoughts away like water from her hair. This wasn't some childhood fantasy. This was real, and "Duke" was probably just some guy who happened to share a deadbeat god for a father. She forced a small smile just as Wes launched into explaining his and Trinity's divine lineage.

“‘Divine sponsor’? That’s a new one,” Wes snorted, his nose wrinkling in that way it always did when he was amused. “Only demigods here… At least I think? I suppose there could be sponsors now? Whatever the hell that would be.”

Rae's eyes dropped to the ground as she muttered, “…Right. Not sponsored, then.” She'd read so many Reddit threads trying to prep for this camp, and apparently, half of them were full of shit. But the moment Wes said Ares, her head snapped up, and her gaze found Trinity automatically.

Oh. That actually… made a lot of sense.

Rae nodded slowly, eyes trailing briefly over the other girl’s posture, the clean muscle lines, the don’t-mess-with-me aura.

Then Wes dropped Aphrodite, and Rae's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“Wait, seriously?” The words tumbled out before her brain could catch them. She floundered, hands fluttering in the air like startled birds. “I mean—not in a bad way! You’re just—” She gestured vaguely at him, at the camp, at everything. “I thought she’d be more… y’know. Not…” The sentence died mid-air. There was no way to finish it that wouldn’t sound rude, and to be honest, she wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say.

Because yeah, Wes had always been ridiculously good-looking. That part wasn’t news. She’d spent half of high school trying not to stare too long when he smiled. But the idea of him being the literal son of a love goddess felt… off-kilter. Like trying to convince someone (i.e her) that Crocs were suddenly now super fashionable to wear and not at all hideous. Wes had been charming, sure, but in a chaotic, snack-stealing, fire-alarm-pulling kind of way. He was neither seductive nor polished to her. He was just… Wes. The same idiot who once tied two rubber bands around a classroom chair leg and called it “engineering.”

Nonetheless, standing this close to him now, Rae became acutely aware of the way her skin prickled with that static charge she'd always associated with Wes's presence. Even after all these years, her body seemed to remember him, the warmth of his one-armed hug still lingering where he'd touched her, and her stomach kept doing these ridiculous little flips she couldn't seem to stop. It was infuriating. And confusing. Because the Wes before her was both exactly the same and completely different (the man had a missing limb for crying out loud!).

Rae blinked hard, suddenly hyperaware of the heat creeping up her neck.

“I just…” she muttered finally, trying to recover with a crooked half-smile. “I don’t know what I thought. I guess it’s still weird wrapping my head around the whole ‘gods are real’ thing, let alone them making kids.” Especially kids like Wes. Especially when standing next to his gorgeous, Ares-born girlfriend with steel in her eyes.

Then Rae’s expression softened when she caught that tight-lipped smile of his and Trinity’s comforting him, and her voice lowered a fraction. “Pretty or not, Wes, you’ve always had more going for you than that.” It came out before she could stop it, quiet, honest, and maybe a little too revealing, but she didn’t take it back.

Something that she would quickly come to regret.

“Probably why you had a crush on me in the first place. The whole allure thing is… weird. I can’t really control it. So you could very well hate me, once you get used to it,” Wes teased, with Trinity automatically speaking up for what felt like the first time in a while with a question of her own:

“And do you still have a crush on him?”

Rae's eyes immediately did that thing they sometimes did when her brain went into emergency shutdown: they bugged. Wide, startled, deer-in-headlights bugged. Trinity’s question had landed like a brick to the back of her skull, and for a moment, she could only blink.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I, uh, what?” she squeaked, voice jumping an entire octave. Heat flooded her face so intensely she half-expected steam to start rising from her ears. “I—no? I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t, it’s just—” She turned helplessly toward Wes then, but his earlier comment about her potentially hating him still hung in the air between them, making everything ten times worse. Rae dragged a hand down her face, trying desperately to collect her scattered thoughts. This was too much. Too fast. She'd been at camp for what, twenty minutes? And already she was being interrogated about ancient feelings she'd never properly examined in the first place.

She tried to string her thoughts together, but they kept tripping over each other like shoes on the wrong feet. Did she still have a crush on him? It had been so long. And now that she knew about this allure thing, how could she even trust her past feelings were real, let alone her current ones? Was she attracted to him back then because of him, or because of magic hormones? And if it was the latter, did that make her pathetic? Or just… as human as everyone else?

Rae swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“People change,” she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes shifted to the space where Wes's arm used to be. They'd both changed. Grown. Moved on. “High school was... a long time ago.”

So, why did the words taste like a lie even as she said them?

Maybe that was the problem. Unlike her mind, her heart hadn’t quite gotten the memo.

Perhaps desperate to change topics or still in shock about her arrival, Wes finally spoke. “I can’t believe you’re here. Small world.” The genuine surprise in his tone made something in Rae's chest loosen slightly because at least this part of him hadn't changed. That easy, unguarded happiness that had always drawn people to him.

An awkward pause stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of campers talking and the occasional pop from the bonfire. Then Wes's gaze dropped to the suitcase still wedged against Rae's hip, its wheels caked with snow from the trek through the woods. “Here,” he offered suddenly, already reaching for the handle with his remaining arm. “Let me help you with that.”

Rae opened her mouth to protest (old habits dying hard), but Wes had already taken the bag with that same effortless confidence he'd always carried himself with, missing limb or not. The sight of him maneuvering the suitcase with ease sent another pang through her chest. How long had it been since he'd lost it? How many other things had changed that she didn't know about?

“Did you need help finding a cabin? Or anything?” Wes asked, tilting his head toward the rows of buildings visible beyond the firelight. Yet, before Rae could respond, Trinity clapped her hands together with a loud sound that made Rae jump slightly.

“Yes. You two probably have a lot of catching up to do. Lots of things to address.” She gestured to Wes’s missing arm. “You should give her the full tour and really fill her in on camp.” There was no venom or sarcasm in her words that Rae could pick up on, thankfully, though the gesture to Wes’s missing arm made her frown a little. Was this truly the best time to get into that story? At a New Year's Eve party? She felt otherwise but held her tongue.

“Yeah, no, I haven’t picked a cabin yet, so some help would be nice,” she said instead, offering Trinity a small, polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.She looked back at Wes, forcing a breath through her lungs and finally managing a more genuine smile to match his. “I’ve got a lot to learn, apparently.”

A hell of a lot.

---

Location: Party outskirts
Interactions: Wes (@Mjolnir) and Trinity (@xNocturnax)
Mentions: Duke

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37...|...outfit}

The second shot glass sat untouched before Elias, its contents shimmering under the bar’s lights like a liquid dare. He rotated it slowly between his fingers, watching the light refract through the alcohol in hypnotic patterns. Part of him knew he should stop as the first shot hadn't exactly improved his situation. Yet another, louder part argued that maybe the solution was simply more alcohol. After all, bad ideas could eventually run out and turn into good ideas, right? So with that obviously flawless logic in mind, he’d just about raised the glass halfway to his lips when sudden movement to his left made him pause.

A guy he didn’t recognize appeared like some kind of cheerful, forest-themed mirage: well built, big smile, and a whole-ass box of bottles and a potted plant in hand. Elias blinked rapidly, wondering if the tequila was playing tricks on his vision as he began unpacking the bottles and arranging them like precious artifacts in a museum display for everyone’s apparently easy consumption. Then, unable to resist his inquisitiveness once he finished, Elias leaned forward, squinting at the mysterious containers.

...Is that... wine? No, not wine, he thought, nose wrinkling at the golden liquid inside one of the bottles. Why does it look like pee in a fancy bottle?

His eyes scanned the elaborate labels until the word “mead” jumped out at him in swirling calligraphy. A memory appeared in his mind when it did. Something about Vikings drinking honey wine from horns? Or was that from that fantasy game (Skyrim, maybe?) he'd pretended to like for that guy last year? He'd never actually tasted the stuff before, only knew it existed from historical dramas and nerdy conventions.

Elias glanced from the mead guy to the nearest partygoers, waiting to see if anyone else would acknowledge the fact that a walking renaissance faire had just shown up and started unpacking like he was about to open a pop-up tavern. However, people were already reaching for their glasses. So….

Elias reached for one of the bottles himself. After doing so, he squinted at its label – another blueberry one? – just as a woman nearby practically sang out, “Jesus Christ, that’s good, child of Dionysus for sure.”

His eyebrows lifted after that one. Dramatic much?

Elias hadn’t seen her grab the bottle, but she was already two sips in and waxing poetic like this was some kind of divine nectar. He half-expected Gordon Ramsay to emerge from somewhere with a tasting spoon and a crisp “Finally, some good fucking alcohol.” But, alas. This was no Hell’s Kitchen.

Still, curiosity was a hell of a thing. He poured himself a cautious amount, just enough to taste, not enough to commit. Although before he could even take a sip, the shattering of glass made him turn his head to the side to look further down the bar’s counter from where he sat.

And then he saw her, up on the bar, legs spread enough in offering to a man in between them. The girl with the rhinestones.

Elias blinked, watching in both shock and awe (because what the actual fuck?) as the man’s tongue appeared to slide up her thigh, licking her like she was the last drop of something precious. He swallowed hard, staring with something bordering on fascination as the rhinestone girl, obviously enjoying what was happening to her-what was being done to her- grabbed at his head to do-

Well, Elias wasn’t quite sure since he’d forced himself to look away at that point, clearing both his throat and his mind of what he’d just happened to witness. A lesser man would have walked away entirely, he decided, so he stayed, swirling his glass of blueberry mead and finally bringing it to his mouth. The flavour hit like a punch to the taste buds, too sweet at first, then with this weirdly understated honey aftertaste that seemed to remain in his mouth long after he swallowed. It was... not bad. More interesting than what he’d just seen, he told himself.

After a short time, Elias made sure to keep his eyes firmly on his drink, determined to ignore the vision of rhinestones in his periphery. He practically felt the girl saunter by with her venator right on her heels, clearly unwilling to give up his prey (or was it the other way around?). Once he was sure the two were gone, he placed his focus back on the mead guy, holding up the bottle he’d taken while catching his eye for a moment.

“Pretty good stuff. Thanks for sharing.”

---

Location: Bar
Interactions: Forest (briefly at the end) (@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Lily, Blair, Ace, + General Bar Crew

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5a3e85...|...outfit}

“He’s attractive, isn’t he? Our new leader? So… What’s he like?”

The words yanked Anissa's attention back so abruptly that it almost hurt. Outwardly, she remained perfectly still without any telltale blush to give away her exact thoughts (thank the Gods), but inside, she winced like she'd been caught stealing. Her expression smoothed into careful blankness, the kind people wear when pretending they weren't just staring at something forbidden. She blinked once before dragging her gaze back to Sylas. When she spoke, her voice was light, each word placed like a chess piece in their game as she made her next move.

“…What?” she inquired innocently, reaching for his bourbon glass again. The liquid burned her throat as she swallowed, but the discomfort gave her something tangible to focus on besides the heat creeping up her neck. Setting the glass down, she met Sylas's eyes fully this time. “Why? Is a strong and attractive leader your type or something?”

The deflection came automatically, honed from years of deflecting personal questions. But even as the teasing words left her mouth, she sensed this superficial answer wouldn't satisfy someone as observant as Sylas. She pursed her lips, a light crease forming between her eyebrows as she weighed how much truth to offer. Too little would seem suspicious; too much might reveal more than she wanted about River. Or herself.

“I didn’t know who he was at first when we met,” she admitted finally, her tone carefully balanced between amusement and nonchalance. “Just thought he was some guy trying to help a very beautiful damsel in distress. So, obviously, like you, he’s smart enough to see a girl worth helping.” She accompanied this with a playful smile, the kind that usually disarmed people, though beneath the surface swirled thoughts she'd never voice aloud.

The lie tasted smooth as the bourbon, covering bigger truths Sylas couldn't see. River hadn't played the hero once tonight, but twice if she was counting him showing her the way here. Even worse, he'd seemingly reacted before thinking when he believed she'd been hurt. That situation was what stuck with her, if she were being honest with herself. The uncalculated immediacy of his action, the way he'd moved for someone he honestly barely knew. Which was exactly why she'd stopped him. The last thing River needed was to be seen as soft, especially with the title of “mystery leader” hanging over his head like some guillotine. She wouldn't let him be diminished by association with her, either, not when he already bore the burden of divine expectations he never asked for. Not when people had always looked at her like a riddle, or worse, like a liability. Especially here, where she might already be out of her depth.

Anissa could handle that. He couldn’t afford to, she decided. River, to his credit, had understood her with just one look—had given her the space she needed without making it feel like rejection (she hoped). That unspoken understanding was precious to her, and not something she'd cheapen by explaining it to Sylas.

“Anyway,” Anissa continued, brushing past the moment like wiping crumbs from a tablecloth, “he’s got a sister here, too. Haven’t met her yet, but I’m sure she’s…nice?” Her voice lilted with vague politeness, the kind reserved for strangers with uncertain reputations.

Her fingers drifted toward the glass again but stopped just short of touching it, hovering near the rim instead. “He actually seemed more approachable than I imagined a kid of Poseidon would be,” she mused, almost to herself. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she turned to Sylas with renewed interest. “Did you know them, by the way? His half-siblings? I asked him about them. I mean—I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say, but… he didn’t seem upset. Just sorta… resigned.”

She let the question dangle between them, the perfect end to her conversational turn. Whether Sylas had answers or not didn't truly matter. She'd either gain useful information about River or successfully steer the conversation away from prying questions. Either way, she'd protected what mattered while maintaining the upper hand. That, as far as Anissa was concerned, counted as a win.

---

Location: Table near the bonfire
Interactions: Sylas (@Mjolnir)
Mentions: River

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

---

---

The bathroom door slid shut behind her with a hydraulic hiss, cutting off the comforting cloud of steam that had enveloped her moments before. Selene stood frozen in place, the plush towel wrapped tightly around her body, while her arms crossed protectively over her chest to keep it secure. Her skin glowed pink from the scalding shower she'd taken, tiny droplets still clinging to her shoulders and collarbones like liquid jewels. The weight of her damp hair, longer than she'd realized, pulled at her scalp as cold water trickled down her back in slow, icy paths that made her shiver despite the lingering warmth beneath her skin.

For a moment, Selene just breathed, listening to the unnatural silence of the penthouse. Then she stepped forward, her bare feet meeting the chilled floor of the hallway, the shock of cold against her soles making her toes curl instinctively. The quiet was so absolute that every small sound—her breathing, the soft patter of water droplets hitting the floor, even the rustle of the towel as she adjusted it—felt too loud, like an intrusion in the space surrounding her.

Selene’s reflection caught her off guard as she passed a mirrored panel in the corridor. She paused, staring at the stranger in the glass. The face looking back at her was hers, yes, but the eyes were different: red-rimmed, shadowed with exhaustion she couldn’t hide no matter how carefully she schooled her expression. The thought echoed in her mind again: Roach was free. It should have been a relief. It was a relief. But it also meant she was alone here, trapped in this gilded cage while the real world moved on without her.

She reached the door to her old room, and the biometric scanner flickered to life, a thin blue light sweeping over her irises before the lock disengaged with a soft, almost apologetic chime. The door slid open, and the lighting inside adjusted automatically, dimming to a warm, artificial glow that was supposed to feel welcoming. Instead, it just reminded her that this wasn’t her home anymore. It was a carefully preserved relic, a stage set for a version of herself that no longer existed.

The room was exactly as she’d left it, frozen in time like some museum exhibit. The walls were the same matte graphite, broken only by the geometric glow lines she used to trace with her fingers when she was younger, dreaming of places beyond this suffocating luxury. The built-in desk was still folded into the far wall, chairless, and her old bed hovered soundlessly on its magnetic lifts, its violet silk sheets still perfectly smooth and untouched. Even the ambient lighting pulsed with the same simulated sunset in the corner, a programmed attempt at comfort for a girl who had long since stopped believing in the illusion of safety.

Standing there, Selene suddenly felt claustrophobic. The room, once spacious, now felt stiflingly small. Too small to contain everything she’d become, everything she’d seen and done since she’d left. The weight of it pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe. The towel slipped slightly, and she caught it just before it could fall. It wasn’t just the near-nakedness, however, that made her feel exposed. It was being here, surrounded by the ghost of who she used to be, before she’d become a problem, before she’d learned how to fight back.

Then, her stomach growled, loud and unexpected.

Right. Dinner.

She hadn’t planned on staying this long. But at least she wasn’t in handcuffs. Small victories.

Selene hesitated before the wardrobe. Part of her expected rejection. That after all this time, the system wouldn’t recognize her anymore, would treat her like the stranger she’d become in this place. But the panel lit up obediently at her touch, the doors sliding apart with perfectly lubricated hinges. Inside, her old clothes hung suspended in climate-controlled preservation, untouched by time or wear. She grabbed the first things that looked like they might still fit: loose gray pants that pooled at her ankles and a sleeveless black tunic that skimmed her hips. The fabric slid against her skin like liquid, absurdly luxurious against her calloused palms.

Running a hand through her damp hair, Selene stepped into the hallway, her bare feet making no sound on the temperature-regulated floors. The kitchenette’s console activated at her approach, the menu screen blooming to life with a pulse of blue light. Rows of curated meal options materialized, each dish more art installation than actual food. Nutrient-balanced trays arranged in geometric perfection; seared protein slices glazed to a mirror shine; grain stacks sculpted into architectural wonders. All were merely edible status symbols, designed to impress rather than nourish. The thought turned her stomach even as it growled in protest.

She tapped blindly at the interface – something hot, something with protein – and confirmed before her stubbornness could override her empty stomach. The console chirped its approval, the tone somehow managing to sound condescending to her ears. Delivery in five minutes exactly. Of course. Precision was everything here. No surprises. No imperfections. No life.

Leaning back against the counter, Selene let the silence press in around her. In her real apartment, meals weren’t summoned with a touch. They were scavenged from night markets before curfew, wrapped in grease-stained paper that burned your fingers. Roach would sometimes turn up with questionable takeout, the containers dented and leaking broth, claiming it would “counteract the cheap liquor” he knew she kept stocked. They’d eat sprawled across her secondhand furniture, the air thick with the crackle of pirated movies and their easy, comfortable silence. The food was always too salty, sometimes cold, often messy, but it had been real. Alive.

The delivery chime startled her from the memory, the promised five minutes having slipped away as efficiently as everything else in this place. The compartment slid open to reveal her meal sealed in a gleaming container that felt heavier than it should. Condensation beaded on its surface as she peeled back the lid, releasing a puff of steam that smelled suspiciously like nothing at all.

Selene stabbed at it with the provided utensil, expecting something unremarkable. Instead, the first bite tasted…okay. It was warm. It was filling. It was composed of ingredients that had been engineered for optimal nutrition.

But it lacked soul, tasting like nothing that had ever touched a fire or passed through human hands.

She ate it anyway.