"Have you considered medication?"
"Have you considered shutting the fuck up?"
A pause. Then: "No."
Despite everything—despite the blood and the madness and the crushing weight of existing in this place—I laugh. Real laughter this time, not the manic edge that makes people uncomfortable.
"You're my favorite disaster, Ro."
"I'm an artificial intelligence construct."
"Exactly. No expectations. No disappointments. No watching you die."
The laughter cuts off abruptly.
Silence fills the space, heavy and thick.
Shit. Shit. Trauma dump. Retreat. Redirect.
I shake my head sharply, pink hair whipping across my face, and shove the sealed letter into my tiny black bag—canvas, reinforced stitching, just big enough for essentials. Which in the Ruthless sector means: letter, knife, emergency protein bar, lock picks, and whatever dignity I have left.
Spoiler: not much.
"Okay," I announce, forcing brightness back into my voice. "Time to get dressed for our ruthless adventure to the mailbox.Because nothing says 'I'm mentally stable' like treating mail delivery like a tactical mission."
"Youshouldtreat it like a tactical mission. The post office is in contested territory."
"See? Even my AI is paranoid. That's how you know shit's bad."
I move to my "closet"—a corner with clothes hanging from exposed pipes—and start the process of transforming from "girl having a breakdown alone" to "girl having a breakdownin public."
First: the ballet shoes.
My hands tremble slightly as I lift them from their hook. Custom-made, or as custom as you can get when you're stealing materials and sewing them yourself during manic episodes. One shoe carnelian red—the color of fresh blood, of beginnings written in violence. The other dusty rose pink—softer, prettier, the ghost of who I used to be.
Mismatched.
Like everything about me.
I sit on the concrete floor, legs extending in a perfecten avantposition because muscle memory is stronger than trauma, and begin the ritual of wrapping the ribbons. Satin strips wind around my ankles, up my calves, crisscrossing in the pattern I learned when I was seven years old and still believed the world was beautiful.
Right shoe first. Red. Blood.
Eight loops around the ankle. Even number.Safe.
Left shoe second. Pink. Ghost.
Eight loops mirroring the first. Even number.Safe.
I tie them off and stand, testing my weight on the reinforced pointe platforms. Pain radiates up through my toes—familiar, grounding,mine. The kind of hurt I choose, unlike all the hurt that's been inflicted.
Next: the outfit.
I shimmy into fishnet ombre jean shorts—black fading to gray, shredded in strategic places—and pair them with a black bandeau top that shows off the constellation of bruises across my ribs. Some from training. Some from fighting. Some from that thing three weeks ago that we don't talk about because talking means remembering which means spiraling.
The mirror—cracked, mounted to the wall with duct tape and spite—shows me my reflection.
Porcelain skin. Pink hair with silver-white roots. And my eyes.
