The OCD whispers its familiar litany:Even numbers. Count in evens. Two, four, eight. Not three. Never three. Three is wrong, three is chaos, three is?—
"Stop," I mutter to myself, forcing my foot still. The ring sways slightly with the movement. "Stop, stop, stop, stop."
Four stops. Even number. Better.
So I'm having an episode,I think with detached amusement.Cool. Cool cool cool.
The music shifts to the next song—something equally drowning, equally perfect for wallowing in whatever the fuck my mental state is today. Chaotic? Depressed? Manic? All of the above in a beautiful, terrible cocktail that makes me want to laugh and scream and dance until my feet bleed?
Yeah. That one.
"Ro, remind me again why I'm friends with a disembodied AI voice instead of, you know, actual humans?"
"Because humans are inherently disappointing, and I cannot betray you as long as my programming remains intact."
"You're so sweet. It's almost disturbing."
"Thank you. I think."
I finish the letter with a flourish, signing my initials with extra loops because if I'm going to be dramatic, I might as well commit. Then, in one fluid motion that would be impossible if my body weren't trained for exactly this kind of bullshit, I unhook my legs and flip forward.
The world rights itself in a dizzying rush.
I land on bare feet—toes pointed, knees bent to absorb impact, arms sweeping up in a perfectattitude derrièrepose—and hold it for exactly four seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Good girl,my dead mother's voice whispers in my memory.Perfect form, even in madness.
The giggle comes again, higher this time. More unhinged.
"Ten out of ten landing," Ro announces. "Though I continue to question the necessity of practicing aerial acrobatics in a living space measuring approximately ninety square feet."
"It's called multitasking, Ro. I'm efficient."
"You're unwell."
"Same thing in this place."
I roll my shoulders, feeling each vertebra pop in succession. My body is a map of contradictions—ballerina grace wrapped around street-fighter scrappiness, porcelain skin over steely muscle, soft edges concealing sharp intentions.
Five-foot-three of pastel-wrapped violence.
That's what they call me in the Ruthless sector. When they bother to call me anything other than "that crazy bitch with the pink hair."
I prefer the latter, honestly. It has a certain ring to it.
The letter sits on my palm, cream paper against pale skin, my handwriting stark black across the page. For a moment—just a brief, aching moment—I let myself imagine him reading it. WhoeverS.W.is. Wherever he is.
In another sector, maybe. Another academy. Another circle of this specific hell we've all been condemned to.
Does he smile when he reads my words? Does he roll his eyes? Does he worry about me the way I worry about him during the hours when sleep won't come and my brain insists on catastrophizing every possible scenario?
"You're ruminating," Ro observes. "Your heart rate has elevated. Would you like me to initiate breathing exercises?"
"No." I shake my head, pink hair swishing around my shoulders. The silver-white roots are showing again—same shade as Knox, my brother, the only person in this world who I'd burn it down for. "I'm fine."
"You're exhibiting signs of?—"
