I hold up my own envelope. "Sending this."
She takes it, her eyes scanning the address—a P.O. box number at a facility two sectors away. The same address I've been using for five years.
"No problem." She starts processing, fingers moving through familiar motions. "Anything else?"
"Just a question." I keep my voice casual. Idle. "The rules about Omegas and postal services. They're real?"
Maria's expression tightens.
"Yes. New directive came down last night. Packless Omegas can no longer access mail services."
"Seems... harsh."
"It is." She sighs, stamping my envelope with more force than necessary. "But that's Ruthless Academy for you. Nothing makes sense here except the cruelty."
I nod slowly.
"Though—" she pauses, glancing up at me with something like hope, "—there are loopholes. Temporary pack arrangements. Workarounds. If you know any Omegas who need help, there might be options."
Interesting.
I file the information away for later.
"Thanks," I say, as she finishes processing my letter. "Have a good day."
"You too."
I turn to leave?—
And freeze.
The counter to my left.
There's a letter sitting on it.
Pink envelope.
Darker stains on the wax seal.
Familiar handwriting.
Her letter.
The one Maria accepted as a "final courtesy."
The one that's addressed to a P.O. box I know intimately.
The one meant for me…
"Huh." Maria's voice comes from behind me, confused and slightly worried. "Where did I put that girl's envelope?"
My hand moves before I can think about it.
Practiced.
Precise.
The escape artist's sleight of hand—the skill that kept me alive in the performance troupe, that let me palm keys and slip locks and disappear things right under people's noses.
