Sweet Tooth Bakery sits on the corner of Lark and Mercy, wedged between a closed tailor shop and a mechanic stall that never shuts down completely. At night, the bakery’s sign glows weak blue, the tooth flickering in and out as if chewing on its own electrical problems. The front lights are off now, but one soft glow remains inside the pastry case. Through the rain-streaked glass, I can see tables turned upside down on chairs, the counter wiped clean, the mural on the wall blurred by darkness.
I know too much about this place.
I know the old woman arrives at five thirty-six when she is late and five twenty-eight when rain is coming. I know Evie burns the first batch of coffee every third day because she gets distracted helping Mr. Eddison with his compad. I know she gives day-old muffins to the family in the green coats and pretends not to notice when the youngest child pockets sugar packets. I know she sings when she rolls dough, badly but with conviction. I know she keeps a metal bat beneath the counter and would probably swing it at a Grolgath if one insulted her neighborhood.
I know her laugh.
That is the worst part.
Her laugh carries through glass better than it should. It has no tactical purpose. It does not warn, threaten, command, or conceal. It simply exists, bright and stubborn, filling the street as if Halo deserves joy and she intends to provide it by force if necessary.
Earlier today, she waved at me.
I stand beneath the dead tailor shop awning and look at the dark bakery, and that small gesture burns hotter in memory than plasma fire.
Hi, she said.
Not move along. Not what do you want? Not please don’t hurt me. Not the hundreds of silent looks I have collected since leaving the military, the ones that weigh my size, my scars, my species, my history, and decide monster is the simplest answer.
Hi.
My mouth tightens.
“Foolish female,” I mutter.
The words sound weak even to me. She is not foolish. Or not only foolish. She sees too much, perhaps. That may be worse.
A sound comes from the alley behind the bakery. Not the cat. Not rain. A metallic scrape followed by a low male laugh.
I move before thought finishes forming.
The alley smells of wet garbage, coolant leakage, and the sharp chemical stink of cheap narcotic vapor. Three young men stand near the bakery’s rear door. Human. Early twenties or younger. Poison Memories colors marked on one jacket sleeve, purple-black skull bloom painted badly over synthleather. One holds a pry tool. Another has a bottle in a paper wrap. The third is pissing against the wall beside the rear steps.
Anger moves through me cold and clean.
The one with the pry tool wedges it near the doorframe. “Told you the little cake girl closes alone.”
“She got cameras?” the drunk one asks.
“Cameras cost money.”
The third laughs. “Maybe she keeps cash in there. Maybe she keeps something better.”
I step into the alley.
No dramatic announcement. No threat. No wasted breath.
Their bodies understand before their minds do. The one pissing yelps and turns, fumbling with his pants. The drunk one drops his bottle. The pry tool clatters against the metal door as its owner jerks backward and hits the wall.
I pull my hood back enough for them to see my face.
Rain strikes my scales. The alley light flickers once, illuminating the scars across my cheek, the red highlights along my black ridges, and the expression I do not bother softening.
“Leave,” I say.
The boy with the pry tool swallows hard. His gaze travels up and keeps traveling until it reaches my eyes. He is muscular for a human, which means very little. He has a tattoo beneath one eye and false bravery leaking out of him like blood from a bad wound.
“We weren’t doing nothing,” he says.
