Pen pal.
The words strike my heart, fair and square.
Pen pal. Month. Letters.
"Still." Margot's voice is petulant. "Rules are rules. You can't make exceptions just because some crazy Omega gets weepy."
"She's not?—"
"Oh, come on. You've seen her record. The body count? The 'episodes'?" Margot laughs—an ugly sound, cruel and dismissive. "Who would want to talk to someone like that? Honestly, whoever this mystery man is, he's probably dead. Or smart enough to stop responding to alunatic."
The laughter continues, grating against my ears.
Something hot and violent coils in my chest.
Crazy. Lunatic. Who would want to talk to someone like that?
They don't know.
Don't understand.
Don't see the girl beneath the body count—the one who writes letters with care and precision, whose words on the page are thoughtful and vulnerable and nothing like the instability they're mocking.
I know her handwriting better than my own.
Know the way she loops her Y's and dots her I's with tiny hearts when she's feeling playful.
Know the particular shade of pink wax she uses on every seal.
Know that every letter arrives with four drops of blood—always four, never more, never less—and I've never asked why because some rituals are sacred.
S.E.
Cotton candy girl.
Mypen pal.
The realization crashes through me like a tidal wave.
It's her.
My hands are definitely shaking now.
The envelope in my grip suddenly feels like something precious. Something vital. Something I need to protect at all costs.
Footsteps approach from the back room.
I compose my face into careful neutrality—the blank, unapproachable expression I've perfected over years of hiding everything I feel. By the time Maria emerges from behind the staff door, I'm just another customer waiting at the counter.
"Oh!" She startles slightly at the sight of me. "I'm so sorry for the wait. I didn't hear the bell?—"
"It's fine." My voice is even. Controlled. Betraying nothing.
She approaches the counter, her movements slightly flustered. This is the woman who took S.E.'s letter. The one who showed kindness when the rules demanded cruelty.
I decide I don't hate her entirely.
"What can I help you with today?" she asks, professionalism sliding back into place.
