The shower was hot enough to sting.
I stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water beat against my shoulders, my back, the base of my skull where a headache was starting to bloom. The soap was cheap—some motel brand that smelled like lemons and chemicals—and I scrubbed until my skin was pink and raw.
Clean.
I was clean. My hands were clean. The blood was gone.
Whose blood?
I couldn't remember.
The towel was thin and scratchy. I dried off quickly, wrapped myself in it, and stood in front of the mirror again. The woman who stared back was still a stranger, but she was starting to look familiar. Not loved. Not recognized. Just... seen.
You've been here before, I told her.You've stood in front of mirrors in cheap motels and not remembered how you got there. This isn't new. This is just... another version. Another gap. Another wound.
She didn't answer. She never did.
I dressed in the clothes someone had folded—black jeans that fit too loosely, a dark sweater that smelled like smoke, boots that had seen too many miles. The knife went into my waistband, the gun into my jacket pocket. I checked both twice, three times, letting my hands remember what my mind couldn't.
"A good girl is always prepared."
Gabriel's voice. Or maybe my own. Or maybe something I'd read once, in a book I'd never owned, in a life I'd never lived.
I didn't know anymore.
The door to the motel room opened onto a parking lot I didn't recognize.
Grey asphalt. A few cars—none of them mine, though I couldn't remember what my car looked like or where I'd parked it or if I'd ever owned one. The sky was that washed-out color that comes before dawn, or maybe after dusk, or maybe somewhere in between where time stopped meaning anything.
The address was still glowing on my phone.
Warehouse district. Adams Street. 11 PM.
That was hours from now. Hours to fill. Hours to survive.
I walked.
The city unfolded around me in fragments—a corner store with a flickering sign, a bus stop where no one waited, an alley that smelled like garbage and regret. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know where I'd been. I just walked, letting my feet carry me, letting the streets decide for me because I couldn't trust my own mind to choose.
Gabriel.
Where are you?
Why did you leave?
Was it something I did? Something I said? Something I became?
"You're ready."
For what?
The coffee shop was small and nearly empty.
I sat in the corner with a cup of something bitter and watched the door. The barista was young—college age, maybe—with pink streaks in her hair and a nose ring that caught the light. She smiled at me once, then stopped when she saw my face.
What did she see?
What did I look like?
