Light and dark. Her hair is like frost. Mine is like ash. And that single white streak between my fingers when I push my hairback suddenly feels less like a defect... and more like a signature. Like something in the universe looked at both of us and decided we should mirror each other in the most inconvenient way possible. She looks like an angel. And I know exactly how angels bleed. How to make them bleed.
For a while, I let the room exist without interfering. Observation has always been more useful than movement. The ballroom breathes around her. Conversation flows like quiet rivers between groups of doctors, administrators, and a few bored police officers pretending they enjoy these kinds of events.
Glasses clink. Someone laughs too loudly near the bar. Music hums low in the background. Slow, elegant, almost hypnotic.
I stay where shadows are thickest. No one looks twice at a masked donor lingering near the perimeter of the room. Wealth buys invisibility. People assume you belong if you look expensive enough. And I do.
My attention drifts occasionally. A passing waiter, a cluster of surgeons discussing hospital funding, Lucy dragging Madeline toward the bar for another drink. But my eyes always return to her. Always.
Madeline moves through the room with that same quiet grace she carries in the autopsy room. She listens more than she speaks. Those eyes analyze every word the way they analyze wounds under sterile lights. Lucy does most of the talking. Madeline smiles. A real one this time. For a few minutes she looks almost.. normal.
Not the woman who stood frozen in the elevator yesterday, with my voice still in her ears. Not the woman who now occasionally glances toward dark corners of the room like she's checking if something followed her here. Someone.
I lean against a marble column, rolling the cigarette slowly between my fingers without lighting it. Control. Patience. Both things I'm very good at. Lucy says something that makesMadeline laugh again, grabbing her arm and spinning her halfway toward the dance floor before she protests.
The movement sends her hair spilling across her shoulders like liquid silver. The sight tightens something ugly in my chest. And then, the atmosphere changes. It's subtle. So subtle most people wouldn't notice. But I do.
Lucy notices someone first. Her posture stiffens. Her smile disappears almost instantly, like someone flipped a switch behind her eyes. Her hand, still holding Madeline's arm, tightens slightly. Mali follows her gaze. And whatever she sees... drains the color from her face. Interesting.
My attention sharpens immediately.
A man has approached them. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dressed like half of the men in this room. Tailored suit, mask, confident posture that suggests he thinks he belongs everywhere he stands. But something about him is wrong.
Lucy shifts closer to Madeline in a way that's almost protective. My little storm doesn't smile this time. She looks... trapped. The man says something I still can't quite hear. She shakes her head. Once. Firm.
Lucy speaks next, clearly irritated. The man ignores her. My fingers stop moving around the cigarette. Madeline tries to brush past him. He steps into her path. Not aggressively. Just enough to stop her. Lucy says something sharper now. I watch Mali's shoulders rise with a slow breath. She looks exhausted suddenly.
Then the man leans closer to her and murmurs something near her ear. Whatever it is, it works. Her expression changes. Not softer. Resigned. Lucy immediately starts arguing again, shaking her head hard. Protesting. Madeline touches her arm gently. Calming her. Reassuring her. A silent “it's fine”. It clearly isn't.
But I'll take care of it.
Madeline turns back to the man and nods once. Lucy looks like she might commit a felony. The man gestures casually toward a hallway leading away from the ballroom. Private rooms. Small meeting salons. Places people go when they don't want an audience. She hesitates only a second before following him. Lucy stays behind, watching them go with a visible tension in every line of her body.
I finally light the cigarette. The flame reflects briefly against the inside of my mask. My lungs fill slowly with smoke as my gaze follows the two disappearing figures moving toward the quiet corridor. The moment they vanish around the corner... I crush the cigarette in my palm. Something cold and familiar begins to spread through me.
I don't know who that man is. Yet. But I know with absolute certainty. He just made a mistake. And those have consequences.
The hallway outside the ballroom is quieter. The carpet absorbs most of the sound from the party behind the closed doors. The music becomes a distant pulse instead of a melody. Laughter fades into something dull and muffled.
I move slowly along the corridor until the light from the private salon spills through the narrow opening in the curtain covering the glass wall. From the outside, it looks opaque. From this side, if you stand at the correct angle, you can see everything. I stop.
Inside the room, Madeline stands near the center of the small salon, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The man stands too close to her. Already wrong. Even before he speaks. I lean slightly closer to the curtain. His mask is simple. Cheap compared to the rest of the room. Black. Forgettable. But his posture isn't. Too confident. Too familiar.
He says something. Mali shakes her head immediately. "No" I see her mouth form. Sharp. Final. He laughs. Not loudly. But themovement of his shoulders gives it away. Lucy was right to hate him.
Madeline tries to move past him. His hand shoots out and grabs her wrist. My fists clench so hard I feel my knuckles crack. I don't move. Not yet. She pulls her arm back firmly. He says something again. This time louder. I can't fully hear the words, but I see the shape of them on his mouth.
Her name.
"Mali."
Fuck. So that's what he calls her too. I already know what I'll do to him first.
She steps backwards, putting a table between them. Smart. The man runs a hand through his hair impatiently and pulls his mask down under his chin. And then, I can see his face clearly for the first time.
Recognition hits almost instantly. Not because I know him personally. But because I know the type. Arrogance. The casual aggression. The badge-shaped shadow still clinging to the way he carries himself. Police. Right.
Madeline says something. Her expression is colder than I've ever seen it. He interrupts her, stepping forward again, pointing at her. Accusing. Demanding. Her shoulders stiffen. Then he moves the table to the side and grabs her arm again. Harder this time. Something quiet in my mind snaps into place.
