7.3

  The walk through Paxson unsettles me, though not for any obvious reason. The city’s as rustic as the articles promised, but there’s a polish here they never mentioned. People move with purpose, their faces clean, their clothes crisp, their laughter real. Even the kids have that glow, like the world hasn’t touched them yet, and when we reach the city centre: no gates, no bodyguards, only a rush of sound and colour as the market opens around us. It’s massive, a circular sprawl of kiosks crammed together like puzzle pieces, each one bursting with wares: blades, bootleg quick-hacks, stitched jackets, steaming food, and that shimmering poison they call Lumina, bottled neatly in rows. The merchants stand behind their tables, and they know exactly what they’re selling. The cityfolk do, too.

  And there, planted dead in the centre of the market’s chaos, stands an enormous statue. A woman. She’s tall, muscle cut clean into marble. Not the brutish kind, but the kind that speaks of purpose, of something earned through blood and fire. In one hand, she grips a spear as long as a streetlamp, the tip angled skywards, and her other arm rises high, fist clenched tight. Her eyes are unreadable behind the visor, that visor, the one that sees through lies, through skin, through bone. She doesn’t wear armour, not really, just a hybrid of tech and cloth that clings, as if she stepped straight from some digital hell into our world and paused here, frozen mid-charge.

  And across the base, carved deep into the plinth, the words wait:

  FACE THE MONSTER, SPEAK NO NAME.

  Just that sentence. It doesn’t look engraved so much as it does torn from the stone, as if the rock itself had tried to hold the message back and failed. People pass it by without a second glance, without slowing, without even twitching in its direction. Like they’ve all silently agreed not to notice it. Not to remember it. And still, those words burn. In daylight. In the breeze. They hum with a low, awful power. Not for show. Not for tourists or scavengers or the children licking sugar off their fingers nearby. No, this wasn’t meant for them. It was meant for one person, someone twisted up in something far bigger than they realised. Someone born with the monster already inside them, growing, waiting. Someone who would walk through this market one day, look up at the statue, and feel a cold hand close around their heart.

  And, my God, I can only imagine a warrior this large would have an even larger monster.

  I trail behind Fingers and the crew, hand buried deep in my pocket, one eye peeled for the ‘All Drops’ bar she mentioned. The streets here are a mess of sand-caked asphalt and sun-blasted storefronts, everything jammed so close together it’s as though the buildings are trying to choke each other out. Dust hangs in the air, clings to signs and skin, makes every shopfront look the same: food, tech, pleasure, medicine, death. You can’t tell one from the other unless you already know. We cut around the base of the statue and push through the current of bodies, patrons moving restlessly. Then it’s up a staircase that climbs higher than it needs to, tiles of cracked concrete and old railings reaching for the rooftops. Fingers throws a glance over her shoulder, says it’s “just around the corner.” But the moment we reach the top, the mood breaks. The laughter and neon charm of the market vanish. Up here, it’s quieter, stretched thin between buildings that look like they’ve given up. An alley, not quite hidden but forgotten all the same. No children here. Just shapes slumped against walls: humans, or what’s left of them. Not begging, not speaking. Just... leaking. A yellowish fluid dribbling from slack lips, pooling at their chins, eyes rolled back and clouded. Nobody moves. Nobody moans. They’ve all taken it.

  Lumina.

  Or maybe, judging by the horrid faces, the wet lips, the tremble in their fingers, it’s Lumina that’s taken them.

  No one says a word. I want to. God, do I want to. I want to ask if this is normal, if this is just what happens up here when no one’s looking. But the others keep walking, eyes forward, like this whole scene is just background noise. Maybe it is. Dance once said that Lumina was rotting the state from the inside out, turning minds to soup, spines to paper. I didn’t believe him. Thought it was just one of his rants. But now I see it for myself, and it hits me low in the gut.

  Even as we step past, they start to move. Slow, awful motion, puppets trying to remember how to be alive. Hands reach out from where they slump, thin and shaking and raw at the knuckles. Their mouths work, foam clinging to the edges, yellow trails running down their chins. And the sounds: they speak, almost. Their tongues flick against teeth, lips curling around broken syllables. Not words, not really. Just noise.

  But then, God help me, I hear it:

  “Spay… change?”

  He grabs my leg—cold fingers, barely human—and I shake him off, saying, “Uh, flat out. Good luck, though,” as if that’s going to mean anything to a man who barely remembers his own name.

  Then I bolt, catching up with the others just as they round the corner. And with that, the alley coughs us back out into a cleaner face of the city. Cleaner, but not clean. The air smells less like rot and more like grease, smoke, and cheap aftershave. The people here smile—small, twitchy smiles that don’t touch their eyes—but they’ve got colour in their cheeks, and their hands aren’t shaking. That’s something. The walking space is still narrow, crushed between overbuilt walls and sagging neon signs, but at least the shadows here don’t feel like they’re watching you breathe.

  Metal skybridges link one side of the skyline to the other, strung across the upper floors. They cast long slabs of shadow over the streets, and for a moment, it almost feels cool. People lean over the railings above, looking down with dull curiosity. Someone drops a plastic wrapper. It spins through the air, catching sunlight, landing at my feet like a crumpled little flag. Some things never change.

  Then, I see it:

  ALL DROPS.

  A bar, if you can call it that. Panels hammered together like a junker spaceship, pipes snaking along the roof, spitting occasional jets of steam in a desperate attempt to stay alive. The sign buzzes overhead in stuttering pink letters, the D half-flickering, the S flickering back, like the thing can’t decide what kind of name it wants to die with. The door’s just a sheet of dented steel, scabbed with stickers and old warnings, some peeling, some fresh, all unreadable. A red light scans across us as we approach, horizontal and slow.

  Then—beep.

  A voice follows. Male. Too smooth. Too clean. An AI trying to sound like someone’s trustworthy uncle, but landing somewhere closer to undertaker-with-a-script.

  “Any weapons must be stored in the Depository. Carrying firearms into any establishment is a punishable offence under Paxson City Mandate 74-C.” There’s a brief pause, and then it adds, just a shade lower: “Noncompliance will result in immediate corrective action.”

  The steel door exhales with a reluctant hiss, dragging itself open. Quick air spills out, cold and tainted and thick with the stink of spilled liquor, fryer grease, and that faint electronic buzz that clings to places built too close to power. We step in, and another set of doors greets us: tall, graffitied slabs of battered steel, sprayed with the grinning faces of clowns, demons, and things with too many eyes. Behind a scratched window (bulletproof, no doubt) a woman watches us. Her greeting is flat, automatic.

  “Weapons,” she says, tapping the slot beneath the glass.

  We hand them over without argument, including my red visor. She logs each one, dropping them into a locker labelled A-12B and sliding a plastic tag towards Fingers. Overhead, a round device scans us with a slow pulse of blue light, humming with judgment. Then, with a final click and groan, the second door opens, revealing the bar’s insides. We step through. The air shifts again. Warmer now. Wetter.

  And it’s… different. Not what I expected, not in this city, not after the neon sermons and chrome-plated smiles outside. There’s no artificial sky here, no retina-burning lights or digital stars on the ceiling. No, this place is darker, older. The air’s tinted orange from a scatter of high-mounted lanterns that swing gently. The tables are round, heavy, bolted to the floor. Velvet seats and cracked leather benches circle them, worn to shine by time and too many tired bodies. The place is full. Not packed, but alive. Men and women lean close, laughing into glasses, their voices gravelly from cigars and years they don’t talk about anymore. And the music... it catches me off guard. Not synth, not bass drops or neuro-jazz fusion. Real instruments. Saxophone, maybe. A brush on snare. Something human. Something warm. It creeps under your skin and settles there, soft as memory. The smell, though—Christ. Sweat, spilled drink, the sharp bite of dried vomit hiding in the grain of the floorboards. But no one seems to mind. And after a second, neither do I.

  Then I spot the bar. It’s nothing flashy, but rather a flat stretch of metal and composite, slightly warped at the edges, probably bent during a brawl no one talks about. It’s narrow, almost apologetic, with shelves behind it that carry more dust than liquor. No glittering displays, no glowing bottles. This place doesn’t care about presentation; it’s here to get the job done, and nothing more.

  Behind the bar stands a woman built like bad news. Black mohawk sharp enough to cut glass, eyes glowing an implanted red. Her jacket is high-collared, armoured, stitched with dark plates and flex-steel bands, shoulders bulked out with padding that looks half military, half custom job. She’s all edge, all business, and she does not look happy.

  And it doesn’t take a genius to see why.

  A man leans across the counter, voice sloppy and wet. He’s got one hand latched around her forearm, knuckles white, either trying to yank her back or drag her in for something messy and stupid. His grip tightens. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she says in a deep but feminine voice:

  “You’ve got exactly three seconds to let go. After that, I stop being nice.”

  He laughs, loud and ugly.

  She doesn’t.

  And neither do the two steel rods that snap free from her sleeves with a pneumatic hiss, twin silver blades gleaming under the low orange lights. Not big, but big enough. Sharp, surgical, angled just so: one at the bastard’s neck, the other hovering right under his chin, close enough she can probably feel his pulse in the steel.

  Now he’s not laughing.

  He sputters something, a wet, drunken mess of vowels and fear, then peels his hand off her arm, stumbles back, and lands on his ass with a wooden thump that echoes through the bar. A few chuckles ripple out from nearby tables, but no one’s surprised. And like that, the moment’s gone. The crowd flows again, bodies brushing past me like I’m not even there.

  Fingers vanishes, already swallowed by the noise and the dark. Vander drops onto a stool, barking out a drink order before his coat even settles. Cormac joins him, silent as a shadow. Dance claps me on the back, says, “Back in a dookie,” and disappears towards the bathroom. Whatever that means.

  So, I take the only path that makes sense: I slide onto the empty stool beside Cormac and Vander. The bartender doesn’t look up at me, doesn’t slow down. She pours two perfect pints, foam kissing the rim.

  Then, without turning, she speaks:

  “What’ll it be, Clapper?”

  I pause. “Clapper?”

  She reaches across the bar and taps my arm. “Figured I’d give you something to live up to.”

  “Oh, cute,” I say. “And here I was gonna ask who butchered your hair. But if we’re going low… guess it takes guts to walk around with a mop that greasy.”

  She goes still. Not offended. Just recalculating. “Drink?”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Water,” I say, slightly annoyed. “Thanks.”

  She chuckles, walks away for a second, fills up a glass, comes back, and places it in front of me. “Five eddies.”

  The charge pings my neural display before she even finishes the sentence: big, bold, and non-negotiable. I blink to confirm the transfer. Five eddies for a glass of water. Could’ve been worse. Hell, in N.A. they’d charge you double just to smell it first. So, I let it slide. But I don’t thank her. And she doesn’t expect me to.

  Then I see her: Fingers. That unmistakable tangle of bright blue hair, catching the orange lantern-glow and turning flame-red at the edges. She’s behind the bar somehow, just there, like a trick of light or memory, slipping in from the backroom. No footsteps, no warning, right behind the bartender, calm as anything, hand reaching out like it’s no big deal.

  She rests it gently on the bartender’s shoulder. “Hey, Bug,” she says casually.

  The bartender flinches, a twitch, but she doesn’t turn right away. Her jaw tightens. Her fingers freeze mid-pour. Then, slow as sunrise, she turns her head and sees the woman behind her. For a second—just one second—there’s nothing but silence.

  Then the bottle hits the bar with a soft clink, and suddenly they’re in each other’s arms. No sobbing, no drama. Only a tight, desperate hold, the kind you only give someone who was supposed to stay gone. The bartender buries her face in Fingers’ neck and mutters something I don’t quite catch, but it sounds right, in that quiet, broken kind of way only sisters know, the kind where forgiveness slips in without asking permission, because love got there first.

  Fingers closes her eyes and hugs her tighter. “Yeah,” she says. “Missed you, sis.”

  Then the bartender pulls back suddenly. “Where the fuck have you been?” she snaps. “It’s been years, Morgan. Years.”

  Fingers lifts a shoulder, half a smile curling her lip. “Hey, you’re the one who suggested I move to N.A. I’m just stopping by, bringing some old friends.”

  The bartender’s eyes cut towards us, narrowing. “These people? Your friends? Really?”

  Cormac grins, the servo in his arm whirring softly as a long hand unfolds from his sleeve like something freshly oiled. He offers it with an exaggerated politeness. “You have your sister’s nose, oh yes,” he says. “And how wonderful it is to finally meet you, Ms…?”

  The bartender doesn’t take the hand. She just stares at it, then up at him, frowning like she’s trying to decide if he’s real or something someone made as a joke. “Arden,” she says. “And you’re fucking terrifying. You wake up in a graveyard or something?”

  “No,” says Fingers, pointing at me. “But she did.”

  Arden looks my way. Her eyes narrow. “Oh,” she says. “Clapper. Huh. I guess that’s a surprise.” She turns back to Fingers. The heat in her face hasn’t cooled. “Listen, you’ve got some explaining to do. No contact for two years. I thought you were dead, and that’s not funny.”

  “I tried,” Fingers says, voice softening just a hair. “You think I didn’t? The moment I got out of that hellhole, I tried every burner I could find, but nothing stuck. System flagged every message, blocked my signals. The grid had my name locked tighter than a coffin lid. Your number was erased.” She pauses, meeting Arden’s eyes. “You think I wanted to stay away?”

  Arden crosses her arms. There’s a quiver there, one she tries to hide behind all that muscle. “You could’ve come back.”

  Fingers nods, swallowing hard. “I know. I know. And I’m sorry. I just—I figured if I came back before I had something to show for it, before I fixed anything, it’d just… hurt more.”

  For a moment, they just stand there. The bar hums around them, like a movie playing behind glass. Then Arden exhales through her nose, not quite forgiveness, but not anger anymore either.

  “You still smell awful,” she mutters.

  Fingers grins. “Family resemblance.”

  Arden takes a second, arms still folded like she’s holding something in. Grief, maybe, or relief in a shape she doesn’t know what to do with. She exhales hard through her nose, somewhere between a sigh and a surrender. “Alright. Siddown. Usual?”

  Fingers lifts the swing gate at the end of the bar and slides through. She drops onto the nearest stool with the ease of someone who’s bled on this floor before. “Whiskey.”

  Arden ducks under the counter, comes back up with a half-gone bottle and a chipped glass. She pours with one hand, no flourish, and shoves it towards Fingers with a lazy slide that ends in a slosh. Doesn’t charge her. “So,” she says. “You’ve got some weird-lookin’ friends, Morgan.”

  “She gets to use your real name?” a voice cuts in: half surprise, half insult. Takes me a second to clock it as Dance. He lands on the stool next to me. “Boy, you’re a spittin’ image, aren’tcha mate? Like twins, but one of you looks like she can actually aim.”

  Arden groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Jesus Christ, how many of you are there? Is this a job interview or a circus audition?”

  Dance says, “Hear this sheilaaaaa.”

  “Sheila?” Arden blinks, somewhere between irritated and confused.

  “Dancespeak,” I say before she can throw anything. “Words that sound good to say but ultimately have no meaning.” I shift on the stool, shoulders tight. “Look, I’m not really sure how to say this, but I need your help.”

  She cocks an eyebrow, grabs a glass, and starts wiping it with a rag that’s seen better centuries. Real old-school bartender body language—stiff arm, glass too clean to need more wiping. She’s buying herself time. “You?” she says, tone light but edged. “Don’t even know your name, Clapper. Plus, you were rude to me.”

  She’s teasing. I can tell. The snark runs in the family like a bloodline defect.

  “Rhea,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She doesn’t take it right away. Instead, she looks at Fingers.

  Fingers nods. “She’s alright. Might have a bit of an issue following instructions, but she’s a decent person.”

  Arden clicks her tongue, dramatic about it, but her hand meets mine all the same. The shake is awkward, firm but quick.

  “Apology accepted,” she says. “Had a feelin’ this wasn’t just some visit.”

  “It was,” Fingers says. “But Rhea needs help. And… I did want to see you. I made a lot of money. I can take a break now. Catch up.”

  “Whatever,” Arden says. “What do you want, Rhea? Spit it out. Before I sober up and change my mind.”

  I get a bit of an itch in my throat and clear it. The kind of dry pinch that shows up when you’re about to ask something you probably shouldn’t. “I’m looking for someone,” I say, fishing my phone from my pocket, screen already warm from nervous fingers. I pull up the photo.

  “Missing person, eh?” Arden leans on the bar, one eyebrow cocked, voice flat. “You’ve come to the wrong place for that. Paxson’s like a storm drain: sucks people in, swirls ’em around with the piss and needles, and half the time, they never come back up. Lotta ghosts in this city, sweetheart. Lotta bones no one’s lookin’ for.”

  I slide the phone across the bar. The screen lights her face: red hair, freckled skin, the old-world softness that no one's made in a long time. I zoom in on her, the woman sitting beside me in the frame.

  “Cierus Marlow,” I say. “She’s the one next to me. This is… old. Decades.”

  Arden doesn’t pick up the phone, just stares at the image. The playfulness drops out of her face, fast. “Cierus Marlow, did you say?”

  I nod, slow. “Yes. You know her?”

  Arden doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe for a beat too long. Then she says, quietly: “… I knew Cierus Marlow.”

  “Knew?” I say.

  “Oh, here we go,” says Dance. “I’ll take a whiskey—neat, none of that synth ice dookie—and if you’ve got something behind the bar that doesn’t smell like regret, toss that in, too. Cheers, mate.”

  “Dance,” I snap, eyes sharp on him. “For once, shut the fuck up.”

  “You got it, mate,” he replies immediately, raising his hands. Doesn't care. Probably never has.

  Easier than I’d anticipated, to be honest.

  “Perped you down real fast,” Vander mutters behind his bottle, grinning into his beer.

  Arden leans on the bar with both hands, looking at me. “Look, I’m not sure what sort of business you want with Cierus,” she says, voice lower now, tighter. “But whatever it is, it’s not worth the trouble. Trust me.”

  “It’s important to me,” I say. “I’ll make it worth your while. How much do you want? I can afford it.”

  Arden shakes her head slowly, like I’ve missed the point entirely. “It’s not about the money. She’s just…” A pause. Her eyes drop to the bar, tracing something I can’t see. “Look, just tell me what you want, and I’ll help as much as I can.”

  “Well,” Cormac cuts in, smooth as oil on tile, “from my understanding, if I may intrude, Ms. Mono, known to you rightfully as Rhea, is in pursuit of her… lost memory.” He clears his throat. “You see, she did indeed wake up in a graveyard. Not metaphorically, mind you, literally, and unfortunately, quite without her recollections. And from what she’s pieced together, Ourovane appears to be at the root of this elegant little amnesia. And this woman”—he gestures to the glowing screen on the bar—“this Cierus Marlow, well… she seems to be a thread in the tangled knot that is Rhea’s past. All tied up in this square, grainy little photograph… a fossil, really. A whisper of something long buried, oh yes.”

  Arden blinks. “… Jesus, do you always talk like that? He’s really your friend?” He points at Cormac but looks at Fingers.

  Fingers shrugs, sipping her whiskey. “More of a necessary evil. Like taxes. Or migraines.”

  “Listen,” I cut in, pulling her attention back before it floats away again. “My memory’s gone. At least… most of it. The important stuff. And Cierus—she’s the only damn lead I’ve got. Whatever Ourovane did to me, she’s connected. I’m not asking you to put yourself in the line. I just need information. Your name won’t show up anywhere. It’s just me. All on me.”

  She studies me for a second, as if weighing whether to cut someone off or pour one more. Then she sighs, like air bleeding out of an old tyre. “Simply put, Cierus is a braindance retailer.”

  Vander mutters into his glass again, “Called it.”

  “Okay,” I say. “That’s a start. Where can I find her? Is she still here?”

  Arden nods, but her face tightens. “She’s in the Bone District. Somewhere down near the lower rings. I don’t have an address—she moves around. Doesn’t advertise. But she runs an underground braindance rig. Real black-market stuff. Specialises in selling people’s memories. The twisted ones.” She pauses, then adds, voice turning bitter, “Mostly porn or gore. Sometimes both. Yeah, I know. Disgusting people in this city.” Her eyes flick to mine again, softer now. “You sure you wanna dig around in that part of the past? ’Cause people who go sniffing after Cierus Marlow don’t usually come back with anything they want to remember.”

  “You make it sound like she’s some city legend,” Fingers says. “Always one to exaggerate, ain’tcha, Bug?”

  “Morgan,” Arden says, and the name drops with no sass, no sarcasm, only solid weight. “Cierus is an extremely dangerous woman. I’m not being dramatic. She’s got power—real power. Not just street muscle or cred on the Net. I mean manpower. Weapons. Tech. Connections to suppliers most people don’t even believe exist. And she’s got ghostkeys.”

  “Gerstkeys?” Vander says.

  Arden nods. “Backdoors into locked systems. Secure feeds. Government nodes. Shit she shouldn’t have, and no one can figure out how she got it. She could wipe this whole place off the map if she decided we’d looked at her funny. Essentially, extremely powerful netrunning technology.”

  I glance at Fingers, then back to Arden. “Well… I don’t want to fight her,” I say carefully. “I’m not gunning for a war. I just want to talk. If she runs a braindance rig—if she sells memories—then maybe she’s got something of mine. A piece. A file. If she’s in the business, maybe she’ll sell it back to me.”

  Arden leans back slightly, arms folded. “If she likes you,” she says slowly. “But if that’s really you in that picture like you say, and she remembers your face, you might not get a chance to ask her anything. There’s a reason you don’t have your memory, Rhea. And if she’s the reason, then you can bet it wasn’t by accident. Or mercy. She doesn’t do either of those.”

  That lands heavier than I expect. I hadn’t thought of it that way—not really. Not that Cierus might not just be a link to my past, but the one who cut it out in the first place.

  “So, where is she again?” Dance pipes up, thumbing through his brickie. “Bone District, right? Nothing on the dark net about it. That a building?”

  “It’s a junkyard,” Arden says, not looking at him. Her eyes stay locked on me. “But not the kind that deals in busted mechs or hoverframes. The Bone District’s where people go when they’ve run out of good options. Or they’re hiding something worth bleeding for.” She pauses. “She runs her rig out of the lower stacks. Below grid. Power tapped from dead lines. Locals call it the Spindle. You’ll know it when you see it. Smells like rust, oil, and old screams.”

  “Alright, the Spindle,” Dance says, thumb tapping at his brickie. “Righty-o. Yeah. Sector… four. Wow. Good distance. Hour drive, mate.”

  Arden nods. “That’s if you could drive it straight. But you won’t. Streets down there are half collapsed, blocked by crash metal and vendor junk. Only way through without a crawler is along the border roads, and that’ll take another hour. Minimum. Even then, you better not look like you're snooping.”

  “I take it we can’t just walk in,” I say.

  “Nope. Not unless you're on a list. And even then, not alone. The Spindle isn’t open market—it’s gated rot. You need to know a dealer, or look like you’re worth feeding.”

  I nod slowly, trying to piece the whole thing together in my mind, when something in her tone needles at me. “Is it guarded?”

  Arden lets out a breath, half-laugh, half warning. “Yeah. But not by what you think.”

  “By what?”

  She leans in a little, and for the first time since we walked in, there’s something behind her voice that sounds like fear. Not panic. Not drama. Just that quiet respect people give to things they’ve seen up close and walked away from once.

  “Snakes,” she says. “Big. Mechanical. Thing’s coiled up in the pipes and alley cracks. Steel fangs, reinforced muscle cables, eyes like spotlights. They’re not smart, but they’re not dumb either. And if they don’t like the way you move… well.” She lifts a hand and slices it gently across her throat.

  No one speaks for a moment. Even Dance looks rattled.

  Then Fingers finishes her drink, sets the glass down with a clean little click, and says, “That’s… twisted.”

  I look at Arden one last time. “Thanks for this.” I take a sip of my water, then step up. “Should we head out then?”

  “Hold on,” Arden says, her voice sharper than before. She points at Fingers, eyes narrowing. “We’re not done yet.”

  Fingers arches a brow but says nothing. Just waits.

  Arden sighs, shoulders dropping. Her hand comes to rest on the bar like she’s anchoring herself. “Look… I get that you’re all busy. I can see you’ve got a mess to unravel. But I’ve got things to say. Stuff I should’ve said years ago, maybe. So, stay a while. Relax. Drinks are on me.” She glances at Fingers, softer now. “Just… I missed you, alright? Don’t go leavin’ so soon. Especially when you might not come back.”

  There’s a long pause, one that hums under the glow of the lanterns and the low jazz winding through the bar. Fingers doesn’t speak, but the look in her eyes isn’t steel or sass. It’s guilt. Maybe something older.

  She nods, then reaches into her pocket, pulling out the plastic tag. She tosses it to me and I catch it. “Alright. I… missed you, too, sis. Look, let’s get outta here. I can bring you back to our old spot, when we were kids. We’ll talk there.”

  Arden looks over at one of the employees mopping the floor. “Mannie,” she yells.

  The man looks up at her. “Sup?”

  “The bar, watch it,” Arden says, sharp. “I’ll be out for an hour.”

  “Won’t Boss be mad?”

  “Fuck him,” Arden says. “Some things are more important than work.”

  Mannie shrugs, leaning the mop against the wall. “Alright. On it. Just give me a sec.”

  Arden rounds the bar, wiping her hands on her jeans as she goes. She doesn’t look back at us, just nods towards the door and says, “If you’re sticking around, help yourself to a drink. And keep your hands outta the till.”

  Then she’s gone, out into the orange-lit dark with Fingers right behind her.

  We watch them go.

  Outside, the wind picks up again, rattling something metal in the distance.

  Whatever comes next, it’s gonna change everything. And for once, maybe, we get to choose how.