“I’m a medical professional. We occasionally say profound things between cleaning wounds and telling grown men not to put objects in places they shouldn’t.”
“Your job is horrifying.”
“So is food service.”
“Fair.”
We talk for another hour, mostly about safer things. Her clinic’s new administrator is apparently a soulless spreadsheet wearing shoes. My oven may be summoning demons. Darlene’s ongoing feud with the courier who flirts with her has reached what Nara calls “romantic trench warfare.” By the time we leave Bellweather’s, the rain has softened into mist, and the streetglows with puddled reflections from failing signs and passing cargo lights.
Nara hugs me beneath the awning. She smells like antiseptic, lavender soap, and beer.
“Want me to walk you home?” she asks.
“I’m fine. It’s six blocks.”
“It’s Halo.”
“I have pepper spray.”
“Pepper spray works on men, dogs, and maybe aggressive soup. It does not work on plasma pistols.”
“I’ll take Mercy and stay under the lights.”
She gives me a long look. “Message me when you’re upstairs.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Mock me after you’re locked in.”
I salute with two fingers and start walking.
The first three blocks are ordinary. Halo is never quiet, not really, but late at night its noise changes character. Daytime survival gives way to nighttime calculation. Doors lock. Curtains close. Music thumps from apartments above shuttered storefronts. Somewhere, a couple fights with the window open, their voices rising and falling over the patter of rain. A food cart vendor hoses grease into the gutter while singing off-key. The air tastes metallic and damp, and the harbor wind slips cold fingers beneath my sweater.
I keep to the better-lit side of Mercy. My boots splash through shallow puddles. The cider warms my stomach just enough to make the night feel less hostile than it is. I am thinking about invoices, Mira’s warning, Darlene’s terrible affection, and Kauss’s voice saying my name like he had not expected the world to hand it back gently.
That is when I notice the street has gone too still.
Not empty. Worse. Watched.
A group of young men lounges beneath the flickering streetlamp outside the old transit office, their jackets marked with purple-black blooms and skulls. Poison Memories. Four of them. No, five. One leans in the recessed doorway with a vapor stick glowing between his fingers. Another sits on the hood of a dead groundcar, boots swinging. Their laughter fades when they see me.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.
I keep walking.
“Well, damn,” one of them calls. “Bakery girl’s out late.”
I do not look at him. “Bakery girl has a name, and you haven’t earned it.”
The one on the groundcar hops down. He is tall for a human, lean and twitchy, with silver piercings along one ear and a shaved pattern through his dark hair. “Hear that? She’s spicy.”
“Go home,” I say. “I’m tired, and I used up all my customer service voice by noon.”
They laugh, but the sound has teeth in it.
I angle toward the opposite sidewalk. Two of them drift casually to block the way. My heartbeat climbs. The pepper spray in my coat pocket feels suddenly very small.
“Where you going?” Silver Ear asks.
