Content Warning:

  SpoilerTransphobia (including slurs and misgendering), gender dysphoria, mentions of violence.

  [colpse]IV. Scrambled EggsTypically, I would remain as Maisie until I’d left The Coalition campus entirely - but I don’t know Niamh well enough to create her blindly. I can’t just snap into her like I do with Maisie or Cassie. She’s not estic yet. So, I stand in front of the mirror for half an hour, pulling at myself - twisting ears into the right shape, rounding out my tits, softening the shoulder bdes. It always feels weirdly satisfying, like exercising a muscle that I don’t get to stretch out often enough. With each little adjustment, I watch her emerge - not just in body, but in spirit. The glint in her eye, the slight pout in her lip. Niamh Smith comes alive.

  It’s probably unnecessary. Jamie was drunk when we met, and the lighting was terrible. I doubt he’d notice if I got something wrong. But I’d know - and I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. So I get her right. Because it matters to me.

  The bigger challenge isn’t the look - it’s deciding who Niamh is during the day. She was made for neon lights and sex appeal, not coffee shops and emotional hand-holding. Could she be trans? No, because he’s going to have too many questions about "the surgery". She can be bisexual, though - queer enough to be approachable, straight enough to be accessible. Being a student like Jamie seems easy on the surface but it’s surprisingly difficult to bullshit. What if one of his friends is in her alleged css? No, she’s a private carer for a rich elderly woman. It sounds pusible, nobody can check it, and it makes her seem soft and nurturing. The type of person you expose your gender trauma to.

  Now for the outfit. Low-cut white top that lets the girls breathe. An unbuttoned yellow cardigan, loose-fit blue jeans. And because Niamh’s never understood the concept of dressing for the weather - the hat. A floppy felt fedora, perched on her blonde head like she owns the whole street.

  My phone buzzes as I’m about to leave. It’s a Twitter message, but from an account I don’t follow. A message request from someone named @MegatranPrime - profile picture showing a trans woman in her early thirties, bck lipstick, selfie taken at a low angle like she’s trying to hide an aspect of herself that she doesn’t like. She’s pretty. Clearly self-conscious, but undeniably pretty.

  @MegatranPrime: kys nazi terf scum

  A chill runs through me. I stare at the message, then back to her face. If she knew the real me, we’d probably be friends. No - that’s not true. If she knew Cassie, we’d probably be friends. It shouldn’t hurt. It’s Holly she’s yelling at, not me. It’s the version of me I built to be hated. But it still catches something in my chest. Seeing those words on the screen, from somebody who should be on my side... it hurts.

  And it’s not just that it hurts. It’s disappointing to see. Holly’s a baby TERF, not totally sold, still teetering - this would be the perfect moment for somebody to reach out, try and change her mind. That would be more than she deserved. But this type of violent message does nothing but push her further down the anti-trans pipeline...

  Oh.

  Some doubt creeping in, I tap through to @MegatranPrime’s profile and start scrolling. Every post is rage - every ounce of her online identity dedicated to beefing with transphobes. No hobbies, no posts celebrating transness, nothing but screaming. Something about it doesn’t feel right. I squint. Are you real, MegatranPrime?

  Maybe she’s just someone who has been pushed too far. Maybe she’s real, and hurting, and tired. Or maybe she’s bait. A fake. A psyop designed to expose the frauds.

  If she is real - if she’s just another trans woman, isoted and desperate to scream at something - it means I’m about to punch a mirror. And the cuts will sting. But Holly can’t afford to think like that.

  I bite my lip. My fingers hover. Then I type:

  @AdultHumanTweeter99: fuck off, you’ll always be a man.

  The second I hit send, an even colder wave washes over me. My breathing goes shallow. I feel stupid. Not just for the message - but for believing. What do I really think is happening here? That TERFs have gone undercover as a trans woman to run purity tests? That there’s some maniacal vilin behind the curtain, pulling ropes and collecting receipts?

  I chastise myself - but I don’t take it back. I don’t apologise. I just won’t look at her profile ever again.

  I’m already running te as I rush down the hallways of The Coalition’s basement. It’s mostly just bs down here, and a few empty containment facilities - one of them occupied by yours truly. With my face as Niamh, none of the secure doors will open, but I should have a clear path to the exit. Of course, that’s assuming I don’t try and leave the basement at the exact same time Jordan Bke tries to enter it.

  You’re probably thinking - Niamh, that seems like a pretty safe assumption, right? It’s a Saturday, and Jordan has no reason to come down here. Why would you even consider that scenario?

  Obviously, it’s because she’s now standing in front of me.

  She freezes, brows raised in sharp surprise, body tensing as she squares her shoulders like I just jumped out from behind a corner screaming. Her eyes sweep over me once, then nd hard - like she’s already pnning the best way of arresting me.

  I can’t bme her for the confusion. She clearly didn’t expect to find anybody down here. If she did - it would be some sleep-deprived scientist dealing with biological material that wouldn’t survive the weekend. A blonde bombshell in a floppy hat was probably low on her list of expectations. I really, really want to know what theories are going through her mind.

  "Can I help you?" she says, voice dropping an octave, deliberately firm. It’s an attempt to sound intimidating and if I weren’t so casual about the situation, it would work. She can be very scary when she wants to be.

  I could just tell her it’s me. That would be the sensible thing. She’s seen me shift before - most people in the office have. And Jordan’s been cooler about it than most. But I don’t think anyone’s really clocked that Maisie isn’t my default setting. They think I’m just Maisie, with tricks up my sleeve. They don’t realise that she’s just another costume. And that I don’t have a default state. And if I’m honest, I don’t mind letting that myth live a little longer.

  "I could ask you the same question," I say, lifting my voice into something airy and teasing. "What are you doing here, Jordan?"

  It comes out smooth, flirtatious. Not on purpose. That’s just how Niamh talks. I don’t expect to throw her off - but something flickers across her face anyway. A slight panic - enough to mask the fact that I used her name. She’s too busy feeling guilty about her own presence to worry too hard about mine. Interesting. My eyes flicker to the other containment cells. All empty - but she doesn’t know that.

  "I was just checking... something," she says, shaking her head. "It was stupid."

  "You were wondering if the child was being held down here, weren’t you?"

  She gasps, covering her mouth with her hand, as the pink in her cheeks fres to red. "How did you..." Her eyes narrow, scanning my face for something familiar. "Maisie?"

  I nod, extending my hands and wiggling my fingers with a grin. "Yours truly."

  She keeps staring, suspicion not fading as fast as I’d like. Like I’ve done something wrong by walking around as someone other than the compliant little woman I built for The Coalition to push around. Like shifting my body is something shameful.

  "What are you doing down here?" she asks.

  That sparks a ugh. "I live down here."

  Her expression flicks - confusion, then disbelief. "What? Graham lets you stay down here?"

  My tongue clicks off the roof of my mouth. Of course she doesn’t know. I delude myself into thinking that people are aware of my situation. It isn’t a secret, but people don’t care enough to find out. It’s easier to pretend your co-worker isn’t kept in a cage.

  "He makes me stay down here," I say, not bothering to soften the disdain in my voice.

  "Oh."

  Her voice is smaller now, her eyes softer - like she’s finally seeing the bigger picture. And as much as part of me appreciates it, another part burns with the quiet anger of having to spell it out. She’s not Tommy. She’s not Sadie. She means well. But if she meant better, she would’ve already known.

  I gnce at the clock on the grey walls. "Come on," I say, nodding down the corridor. "I’ll walk you out."

  I don’t know why I expected Jordan to start having deep conversations all of a sudden. She was starting to wake up to the fact that The Coalition wasn’t as "Lawful Good" as they cimed, but once we were out on the street, she slunk back into her standard setting - ranting about how they didn’t make hair ties strong enough for the type of workouts she enjoyed. I nod along, feeling like I owe her that much after the past few days she’s had. It’s not easy having your entire worldview shattered.

  Eventually, after what feels like a decade, we part ways, and I speed-walk to Marcos, one hand clutching my hat and the other gripping the strap of my tote bag, ignoring the usual street-side scan from every man I pass. New Niamh characteristic unlocked: she’s chronically te, apparently. It’s quarter past by the time I arrive, and through the gss I can already see Jamie - sat in the far corner of the café, hunched forward with a face like a wet weekend, staring out of the other window like he’s hoping the concrete will swallow him up.

  Poor thing thinks he’s been stood up. On this not-a-date.

  "Hey," I say, flipping into Niamh’s voice without a second thought - light, lilting, with a soft rasp underneath. "I’m sorry I was te, I ran into a friend who was in a bad spot."

  His head snaps towards me, and his whole body seems to lift - as if he’s been untied from something. His skin’s still so pale he’s practically spectral, but the smile that breaks out across his lips is radiant.

  "No, it’s okay," he says, eyes dropping as he rubs the back of his neck. "I thought you’d realised what a prick I was and decided not to come."

  He speaks differently in daylight. The confidence from the club has been repced with something smaller, more human. His voice is softer, almost careful. He’s nervous - and not in the performative way that some men get, hoping it’ll read as charming. This is real. And it strikes something in me. There’s pity, yes, but also curiosity. I’ve figured out Niamh, but who is Jamie?

  I slide into the seat across from him, tilting my head just slightly, settling into Niamh’s skin. The softness of her cardigan, the weight of the hat brim, the gentle swing of hair - it’s all second nature now, but I’m still paying attention. I’m still learning her, move by move. But it’s easy. Like breathing.

  Jamie, on the other hand, is breathing like somebody who’s just surfaced. Probably thinking about how different I look in this light. Probably wondering how he got so lucky.

  It’s not his fault. Niamh was made for this. Sculpted in a reckless moment of thirst to be uncomfortably desirable. I don’t know what he hoped for when he texted me, but I’m not sure he believes it’s really happening. That he’s really having coffee with the girl that he had a mid-fingering breakdown over.

  I shake my head as I lift the menu, deciding that I’ve been through enough today (it’s only noon!) to deserve a panini. "You were fine, honestly. I wasn’t lying when I said it was what I wanted. It was consensual."

  He chuckles, though there’s a nervous tremble to it, like he’s working hard to hide behind charm. "No, I just meant the whole crying and then falling asleep thing. I’m surprised you didn’t rob me. I definitely would’ve robbed me."

  "You didn’t have anything worth stealing."

  That gets a real ugh out of him, and he nods. "Student life, ay?"

  "Not a student," I say, casually.

  A waitress appears at our table before he can follow up, and we both pce our orders - two coffees, a ham and cheese ftbread for him, and a chilli tofu panini for me. He gives his order politely, voice low and respectful - something that I approve of. You can tell a lot about someone by how they treat service staff. Or so I’ve been told.

  As she walks away, my eyes automatically scan the café. No sign of Lexi, thank God. I’d convinced myself the odds of crossing paths were low, but the relief still hits me warm. Still - I wonder if she’s nearby. I wonder how her cis boy is. I speak a silent prayer for her.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  @DrM: Good afternoon, Holly.

  Shit. A pulse of adrenaline fres in my chest. Don’t panic, Cassie. I mean, Holly. I mean - fuck. Who am I right now?

  Jamie’s voice pulls me back to reality. "So, what do you do then?" A pause. "I mean, given that you’re not a student?"

  I blink, re-calibrating. "Oh, um." I scrape my brain - searching for the lie I’d carefully constructed earlier, that now feels oddly out of reach. "I’m a carer. A lovely old dy pays me to come and make sure she’s okay. Clean the house, and whatnot. It’s pretty chill."

  His lips purse in surprise. He wasn’t expecting that - probably figured I was some kind of model, or just didn’t think I did anything at all. Like looking gorgeous was my career.

  "That’s really nice of you," he says. "It must be quite stressful, though. Are you on-call all the time?"

  I open my mouth, but change my answer mid-sentence - realising that if the answer is yes, I wouldn’t have been bckout drunk in the club.

  "Not all the time," I say. "She has family who are around during the night. I’m really more of a st resort."

  I pause, and a smile snakes across my face as a more devious backstory unfurls. One that might be more useful in getting him to open up. "I think I’m just there to be a pretty face, to be honest."

  He snickers, eyebrows raised. "What? Are the men in her family a bunch of pervs?"

  I grin back, head tilted. "No, but she certainly is."

  His ugh comes quick, a little too loud, and I feel the static underneath it - nervousness hidden in humour. He’s pying along, but there’s an edge in his voice, like he’s having to hold onto the curtain tighter at the mention of queerness.

  "So, what? She’s like a lesbian or something?" he says.

  I narrow my eyes just slightly, watching the shape of his mouth as he says it.

  Yesterday, when speaking to that bigot, I acted like I didn’t know what the word "peak" meant. This was tactical, because it was the sort of naivety you’d expect from someone without a Twitter-fried brain. I did not, however, ask for crification on more basic terms - because overdoing that trick makes you look stupid.

  For example, Jamie definitely knows what a fucking lesbian is. But the poor boy thinks that pretending otherwise will make people less likely to suspect that he’s queer.

  "She’s bisexual," I say, shrugging. "Like me."

  His flinch is small but noticeable - like a sharp gust of wind hit him in the chest. If our coffees had arrived already, I’d be drenched. It’s almost adorable.

  "Like you?"

  "Like me."

  "I didn’t think-" he starts, then catches himself.

  "Didn’t think what?"

  "No, it’s stupid."

  "Go on!"

  He sighs. "I didn’t think that women as beautiful as you could be bisexual."

  I ugh and toss my hair back. I really hope this dude is actually not a dude, because I’m cutting him a lot more sck than a cishet man would deserve. Still, he receives his own punishment.

  "Are you?" I ask, letting the words slink across the table, pyful and just a little predatory - testing the water like a fingertip in a bath.

  "Am I?" he says, eyes wide, hand to his chest like I’ve just accused him of a crime.

  The lucky bastard manages to escape, however, as the waitress appears with our drinks and two criminally small ptes of food - pcing them in front of us just as I catch another gnce at my phone.

  @DrM: I believe we live in the same city, Holly. A few of us enlightened ones are going to be meeting on Monday evening at the old Labour Club. Is that something that would interest you?

  My chest lifts. My fingers tingle as I type out the reply, doing my best to ignore Jamie’s quiet fidgeting across the table.

  @AdultHumanTweeter99: Hi! That sounds exciting. I’ll definitely try and come :)

  I put the phone down and take a deep breath. The sort you take after narrowly dodging a bullet - or maybe before walking into one. I’m gd Jamie doesn’t ask why I’m exhaling so hard, because I don’t know how I’d expin that I’m dealing with a TERF supervilin, so that I can get into her secret group and figure out if any of their members are murderous vampires.

  "I don’t think so," he says, finally answering, as he stares at his coffee.

  I smile, softening myself again. I give him a gentle tap on the shoulder - light and warm, the way Niamh does everything. He recoils slightly, but doesn’t say anything.

  "So, do you want to talk about what that was the other night?" I say - a feeble attempt to change the subject from one trauma to another.

  He lets out his own mega-exhale, and takes a few minutes of pondering and coffee-sipping to answer.

  "I don’t know. I’m sorry - I thought I had the words to expin it, but I don’t."

  "Can I try?" I say, reaching a hand across the table, which he gently pces his on top - though soft enough for me to pull away if necessary, barely making any contact at all.

  The moment my fingers brush his, I realise how much I’ve shifted. Niamh likes to touch people. Not to manipute - but to connect. She’s bold. She pushes - and maybe I’ve taken that a little too far. But I don’t stop. Because I need him to hear this.

  "I think you were putting on a performance. I think you were trying to convince yourself that you were a macho man who goes to the club and takes home a girl, without even learning her name. I think you convinced yourself that’s what you have to be - but it’s not really who you are, is it?"

  His hand shoots away like I’ve burned him, and he retreats into himself, massaging his quickly-reddening cheeks. I watch him carefully - heart racing - and real sympathy fills my chest.

  Because I’ve been there before. In a different way, in a different skin - but it’s the same feeling. Of not knowing who you are.

  "I..." he starts saying, before shaking his head. "Wow. You should be like a therapist."

  I giggle, unable to resist the pride that rises within me. "A therapist would tell you that you’re using a joke to avoid answering the question."

  He rolls his eyes, but it’s a pyful gesture, not a deflection. "I don’t know. I guess? You’ve probably guessed already, but I haven’t had much sex. I suppose I was just trying to... I don’t know. Prove myself?"

  I nod, leaning forward slightly. It’s almost funny - watching this poor, confused "boy" expin the concept of performance to me.

  "Because that’s what boys do, right?"

  The line nds too cleanly, and I see it immediately - the way his eyes sharpen, the subtle pull in his brow. Suspicion? His scowl isn’t aggressive, but it’s careful.

  "Niamh, do you have a sister?"

  "No."

  He pauses. "A brother? Any siblings?"

  I shake my head, keeping my expression soft and unbothered. But my heart skips. I can see her - Cassie - reflected in the depths of his pupils. He didn’t mention it st night, but I can tell that the question is in his mind. How did that girl at the bar know my name? And he sees something of her in me - whether it be physical or emotional.

  "Why do you ask?" I say, trying to move past it.

  He shrugs, and the moment passes. "Just wondering. And yeah, I suppose you’re right. I tried to be a man st night, but..."

  He exhales, and my lungs tighten in anticipation. This is it - the confession. My hand twitches under the table, forming a victorious fist.

  "But I’m not."

  Yes. Yes.

  "I’m a beta male," he says.

  I freeze. His face is red, puffy, fully earnest - and now wet with tears as he reaches out to clutch my hand like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  After he calms himself down, it’s clear we can’t stay in the café. There are eyes watching us now, curious ones, and he’s cmmed up completely - sunk behind a coffee cup that’s already empty. Being the hero that I am, I ask for the bill and pay for both of our meals - a move that he doesn’t resist. Because, after all, he’s a beta male.

  The term makes me want to throw one of the ptes at his head. I bite my tongue, because Niamh is soft and understanding. She does not grab people and shake them while yelling "you’re a woman, you moron!". That’s what Cassie would do.

  It’s not lost on me how much easier this would be if he’d met Cassie first. Or if he knew the truth. But there’s something about this - about the challenge, the closeness - that’s starting to feel less like an amusing side-quest and more like something I want to protect. A fragile flower blooming in the cold.

  "Let’s get out of here," I say, and he nods - both grateful and relieved.

  There’s a park nearby. Wide, green, with a ke full of fat swans notorious for terrorising children. It’s a strange kind of peace - not quiet, but away from everything. And, crucially, not a far walk from here. I lead him through the foot traffic heading there, as he clings to me like an anchor.

  "Beta male, huh?" I say, gncing sideways as we walk. I’m still holding his hand - which we’re both hyper-aware of - but it feels like we’re beyond the point where letting go would change anything. "That’s an interesting way of putting it."

  He shrugs, looking ahead like eye contact might kill him. "It’s what all the books say I am. I’m a fucking pussy, Niamh."

  The breath he lets out is long and sharp, like he’s cutting himself open with it.

  "And I don’t know how not to be. I don’t know how to stroll into a room full of confidence. I don’t know how to force myself to care about football. I don’t know how to effortlessly pick up a girl and treat her like shit," he says - each word gaining weight until he’s kicking a stone so hard it skips across the pavement.

  "You picked me up pretty well," I say, giving his arm a little nudge, hoping we can ugh our way out of this.

  He gives me a look - not angry, but cutting. "And how did that end?"

  Jamie, please. You are the least terrifying demon I’m facing this week - do not try and fight me.

  "With a coffee date."

  That flusters him, beautifully. He falls silent, and as we step into the park, the air shifts around us. Late autumn has a softness today - the chill disguised by the afternoon sun, filtered through the half-naked trees. Children scream as swans descend upon them with wings spread wide.

  I find us a bench with a good view of the ke - close enough to the entrance that we can leave if we need to, but far enough where it feels private. He sits beside me, speechless at first. Until:

  "This isn’t a date," he says, shuffling awkwardly. "You just felt sorry for me, because you’re nice. It’s a pity coffee."

  Obviously, he’s not completely wrong. It’s not a date, and I don’t see Jamie that way - not really. But I didn’t come out of pity, either. I came because somebody was spiralling and I knew how to help. It’s not pity. It’s solidarity.

  "I’m here because I think you’re sweet, Jamie," I say, pulling in my lips, half a smile. "Do you know how many scumbags I’ve slept with? Too many. And every single one of them would call themselves an alpha male, if they used your system. Do you really want to be like them?"

  He doesn’t look at me. His eyes drift across the ke, where green-headed duck boys follow brown-feathered duck girls in zy spirals. His voice is low. "I don’t know, Niamh. I feel like I’m supposed to want to be like them."

  "But you don’t."

  "How can I?" he snaps, voice rising. "Like you said - they’re scum. Hell, on Thursday night, I was scum. I treated you like shit, and... I don’t want that to be my life."

  There it is. The hinge. The confession. I shift a little bit closer on the bench, careful not to crowd him, but showing I’m not going anywhere. Not unless he wants me to.

  "What do you want from your life?"

  He exhales slowly, like letting go of something heavy. "I don’t know."

  "That’s fine," I say, and pce a hand on his knee - a gentle touch, intended to steady. "I’m here until you figure it out."

  And I mean it. Consider it my redemption for MegatranPrime - but I owe it to Jamie to be there for him. Niamh is somebody who is there for her friends.

  He pulls me into a hug before I can brace for it, and I let myself fold into it - warm and easy. His body isn’t tense anymore. It just rests. Over his shoulder, I watch a swan unfurl its wings and start sprinting at a small child with glowing red demon eyes. The kid screams. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

  We pull apart, and Jamie sniffs hard, though his eyes stay dry.

  "Who are you, Niamh?"

  I smile - soft and simple. "Somebody who helps."

  "-and given how many died, it’s really impressive how quickly they cleared-" Elias is mid-story when I walk in, chatting with Lexi at the bar, but he doesn’t get to finish. Lexi’s already unched herself towards me, practically bouncing across the floor and pulling me into a full-bodied hug, face buried into my small chest.

  I blink and pce a hand on her back, still catching my breath from the whirlwind of Niamh’s morning. "Is this a ‘date was good’ hug or a ‘date was awful’ hug?"

  She leans back just enough for me to see the grin lighting up her face - her eyes gssy with excitement. I can’t help but ugh. "A good one, then?"

  The bar’s empty - for now - we haven’t officially opened yet - but the pce hums with a soft warmth. Sunlight bleeds in through the front windows, catching dust motes in the air. Eleanor is camped in her usual corner, eyes narrowed behind reading gsses as she pores over some paperwork. She doesn’t even gnce up at the sound of Lexi bouncing around the pce, which tells me that she’s either deep in distraction, or that her hearing really is going.

  We’re not expecting many patrons. The weekend afternoons tend to be quiet, our only customers being stray men asking if we’re "showing the footy". We aren’t. My conspiracy is that Eleanor only opens the pub at these times to keep us out of trouble.

  "It was so good," Lexi says, twirling in pce like a magical anime girl from one of her favourite shows, arms fred. "He’s really hot, Cass. Proper gym-bro energy, but he’s so sweet."

  "Did you tell him you were trans?" I ask, tilting my head. She passes well - she knows it, even if she won’t say it out loud.

  She scoffs, "Do you think I can go an hour without mentioning it? Yeah. He... was a bit awkward about it at first, I don’t think he knows much, but... I don’t know, Cass, he seems really nice. In like a himbo way. Maybe it’s about time I dated somebody who doesn’t know what a milkshake duck is."

  "I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to figure that out," I say, ughing, hand still on her shoulder. "I’m proud of you, sis."

  There’s something rattling around inside me - something warm, but with a sharp little edge. I ignore it. Let her have this.

  "So, when are you seeing him again?" Elias chimes in from behind the bar. His voice is light, but I catch the undercurrent - the careful eye of a big brother ready to put someone through a trial by fire.

  Lexi shrinks just a bit, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I, um, kinda asked him to come here on Wednesday. Just for a little bit."

  He smirks. "You’re introducing him to your friends on a second date? Bold."

  She scoffs. "Co-workers, dickhead."

  Elias ughs and nods. "Co-workers, indeed."

  I’m relieved that her date wasn’t a pale goth boy, named Vd or Nosferatu or whatever. If anything, this beefy man sounds like exactly the type of person I want around Lexi - to protect her if something does try to kill her. Sometimes, all you need is a meathead who punches things. Wait. ?I blink, a bad thought spinning through my brain.

  "Um, Lex, did you get his surname?"

  She shrugs, "He probably mentioned it, but I don’t remember."

  "Any pictures?"

  "Cass, not you too! Everyone stop trying to steal-"

  She must recognise some genuine concern in my face, because she stops herself from joking, her smile fading as her brow knits. She slips her hand into her pocket, retrieving her phone. That’s when the door opens.

  There’s a faint ring from the bell, and suddenly the air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room - repced with something heavier. It’s hard to breathe.

  "Red alert," Elias says under his breath, and all three of us turn to look.

  Standing in the doorway is a short, pale woman dressed in a bck leather jacket and ripped skinny jeans. Her lipstick is the same bright red as it always was. Her bck hair sits in a neat bob, not a strand out of pce.

  Lexi goes stiff beside me, her fingers still clenched around her phone - but her arm has dropped to her side. She’s trying to mask it, but I can see that she’s clearly panicking, her mouth forming a line so thin that it barely exists. I’ve never seen her look so small.

  And that’s because the st time Lexi saw Ava Fischer, things ended badly.

  Eleanor is already on her feet. The chair screeches loudly as she pushes it back, stepping between us and the door like a lioness defending her cubs, her reading gsses sliding to the edge of her nose. "You’re barred, love," she says, ft and firm. "Get out."

  "I just need to speak with Lexi," comes the cold voice from the other side of Eleanor - smooth, composed, with a calcuted husk that always sounds a few degrees off human warmth.

  "I don’t care, get-"

  "It’s okay," Lexi says. Her voice cracks ever so slightly as she gets to her feet, pcing a hand gently against Eleanor’s side. "I can handle this."

  Eleanor makes a hmph sound, but doesn’t move for a long second. She only steps aside when Lexi gives her a small nod. "Well, sort it outside. I’m not having her in here."

  Ava’s eyes are locked firmly on Lexi - though just before she leaves, they flick briefly to me. There’s no curiosity in the look, no awkwardness. Just calcution. She gres at me as if to assess whether I’m a threat. I gre back, imagining all of the pain I would cause her if there was nobody else watching. Without another word, they both slip outside.

  Eleanor exhales like she’s just lost a year of her life. "She has the absolute worst taste, I swear to God."

  Lexi comes back a few minutes ter, red-faced, embarrassed, and visibly trembling with rage. She doesn’t say what was said - only that Ava is a bitch, and always will be. None of us argue. If we did, it would be to use stronger words.

  I wish I’d stepped in. I should’ve followed them out, stood behind Lexi like a shadow. Instead, I stayed back and let her face that alone. I tell myself that she said she could handle it - but that doesn’t quiet the heat pooling in my lungs.

  She takes a while to come back to herself, and I don’t press her for the photo of her date again - not right now. Even though a rotten, splintering part of my brain has tched onto a theory that it won’t let go of.

  If your brain hasn’t made that connection yet, dear reader, then what can I say? Skill issue.

  I need a distraction, so I turn to Elias. "What were you guys talking about before I came in?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

  "That train in Cumbria," he says, confirming it. "Like, it’s lucky that there were only twenty people on board, but wow. That’s just so many people to die in a train crash."

  I nod. "It’s awful. That could’ve been any of us."

  "Yep," he says, drumming lightly on the bar. "But they cleared up the debris quickly, apparently. The line’s back open, unbelievably. Not that I imagine many people are going to want to ride it. Probably devastating for the region."

  "It’s November," I say, with a small shrug. "People will have forgotten by the summer."

  "Yeah," he says, sighing. "Though... maybe that’s not a good thing."

  "How d’you mean?"

  "I don’t know. Twenty lives, and they’ll only be remembered for as long as it takes for another major news story. That’s so many families destroyed."

  I nod again, but this time it stings. Guilt fres up in my throat, heavy and acidic. Beyond the child, I hadn’t really stopped to think about the human cost. It had just been abstract graphs and blubbering field agents for me. Seventeen people dead. Lost in a nightmare for a decade. Years of slow, hopeless death. And the ones who made it out - their lives are never going to look normal again. They’re not survivors, they’re anomalies.

  I gnce at Elias. He’s still watching the bar, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm. I respect him for it. For being somebody who feels deeply, even if he’ll never know the full truth. I’m also jealous of him. Because he hasn’t been made numb to this, which is far worse than feeling the pain.

  "Yeah," I say softly. "You’re right."

  It’s seven o’clock and we’re full. Every table is packed, and the floor is a sea of colourful chaos - half-gm drag queens, trans girls in denim jackets, soft butches, bears with glittery beards. Some are spilling out into the street, drinks in hand. I haven’t seen my friends in over an hour, mostly because I can’t find the fuckers in the crowd. Most of the people here are pre-gaming - starting here before hitting a real gay club. A warm-up for chaos.

  You might think - Cassie, why are you doing this to yourself? You don’t need the money. You could just sit at the bar every day, sipping cocktails and basking in queer glory. But I’m sorry. I like it. I like the chaos. I’m sorry, I know that this is a deeply offensive sentiment to those actively suffering in service roles - but I love the job. There are too many spinning ptes in my life right now - Scottish babies, vampire murder cults, TERF Twitter LARPing, Jamie Fuckegg, and whatever Lexi’s gotten herself into. Clearing pint gsses off of sticky tables is the only thing in my life that doesn’t make my brain hurt.

  So, with that in mind, please imagine my disappointment when I stumble, literally, into the arms of the Fuckegg.

  And when I say "stumble", I mean full-body, no warning, bodily sm. I’m shoved from behind, arms full of gsses, and crash straight into his back, sending him staggering forward into somebody else.

  He turns around fast, clearly ready to chew someone out, and then his face shifts when he sees me. That smile creeps in - soft, uncertain. Instinctively, I smile back. And then I remember - I’m not Niamh.

  "Hey," he says, raising his voice over the music.

  "Hey."

  "What are you doing here again?" he asks, blinking as if trying to square two mismatched jigsaw pieces in his head.

  "I work here," I say, leaning forward to make sure he hears me - and hoping it underlines how ridiculous the question is.

  There’s a flutter in my chest. This is fine. He has no idea. He doesn’t recognise you. But my throat is tight anyway. Even though I know I look completely different - Cassie is smaller, darker, sharper - it’s always there, that twitchy part of me that worries people can see right through me. That they’ll see Maisie in my eyes or Niamh in my lips.

  "That must be nice," he says, shouting a little less now, leaning closer. "I’m Jamie." Then, with a sheepish ugh: "But you knew that already. Somehow."

  There’s something almost flirtatious in the way he says it. A sideways gnce. But mostly, he looks lost. He has no idea how I knew his name, and I don’t have an easy answer.

  I give a cheeky wink. "I’m just good like that. Don’t try and understand it."

  "Can I get you a drink?"

  What?

  "Dude, I’m working," I say, shaking my head and ughing - covering, perfectly, how fast my heart just started hammering.

  "Oh, yeah."

  What is his deal? I thought he liked Niamh. I gave him enough signals as Niamh for him to think that he had a chance - so why the fuck is he here flirting with Cassie? Like, yeah - I’m being ridiculous here. I’m not dating this man, so it would be wrong to be upset at him flirting with somebody else.

  It’s even more ridiculous to be upset that he’s flirting with a different version of me. But I can’t help myself. I thought I understood this man, I thought I had him wrapped around my finger, but he’s an enigma. Is he a chaser? Is he something worse?

  And then a terrible thought crosses my mind.

  The man who takes random girls home from the club. Who asks random women if they’re trans and tries to get close to them when they say "yes". Who seems to be hiding a different side of himself. A side that he’s scared of.

  My breath shortens. A prickle spreads across my scalp and I realise that I’m clenching every muscle in my body. Like I’m bracing for a punch.

  I take a step backwards, into a crowd of people who gre at me for bumping them, but I don’t care - because the man in front of me stares back with metaphorical fangs and an imaginary cape. Could it be him? Have I mistaken vampirism for being a closeted trans woman? God, Lexi can never find out about this.

  "Are you okay?" he says, stepping forward.

  "What’s going on here?"

  Eleanor. She appears like smoke - one second gone, the next in full lioness mode, wedging herself between me and Jamie like a shield. She’s giving him the once-over, nose wrinkled, lips curled - the exact look she gives mouldy fruit at the supermarket.

  Jamie shrinks into his skin - but I don’t know if it’s genuine or an act.

  She turns to me, and her eyes flick - a silent question. Do I want him gone?

  Instinctively, I nod.

  "Okay, time to go. Get your friends," she says, and grabs him by the arm with such conviction that even I want to apologise. She marches him to the door and he stumbles out of it, like a hurt schoolboy.

  He looks back, over the crowd, and the way his eyes meet mine - confused, small, hurt - knocks the wind out of me. I feel like an idiot.

  Still, when I next find Lexi, I pull her aside and keep my voice light. "We’re getting a taxi home, okay? My treat."

  "Miss Moneybags," she grins, pnting a kiss on my cheek.

  I smile back, but I still can’t unclench my jaw.

  When I make it back to The Coalition campus, wearing Maisie’s face, I hesitate before heading downstairs. Something in my gut tells me that shit just got real - actually real - and that I can’t keep treating this vampire thing like an annoying side-quest. I’ve been pying detective, but now I’m starting to grow concerned that the next victim could be myself. Or worse, Lexi.

  The motion-detected lights flicker on the moment I step into the office, slicing the darkness apart with that sharp white light. It stings my eyes. I wince, lifting a hand to block it, and take a slow breath before pushing forward - toward my desk.

  I boot up a ptop and dive into the Coalition Research Archive. The CRA always feels sterile. It’s a library of the most bleak, true horror stories, id out coldly in a never-ending spreadsheet. The worst day of somebody’s life is nothing but a row of data in The Coalition’s database.

  I search for vampire-reted entries, and spend the next hour swimming in blood.

  It’s, unfortunately, not as simple as "stake to the heart, hold out a cross, eat lots of garlic". There are variants. I print the pages, hoping the physical paper will help me remember that this is all real.

  The Nightblood is your cssic garden variety European vamp. Creatures of the night, who fly around as bats, and have serious issues with holy water. Stakes and sunlight make short work of them. Though these guys tend to keep to themselves, knowing that they’re vulnerable. They might even hire somebody to do their dirty work for them. But they wouldn’t leave their leftovers out in the street.

  The Adaptiva are more worrying. No bat gimmick, no sunlight allergy - just bloodlust and a stubborn refusal to die unless their head is physically removed. Interestingly, their Circadian rhythm is backwards - meaning that while they can survive in the day, they’re not as functional. These guys are scarier because they’re harder to spot. And harder to kill.

  Then there’s the Tenebrisiphagus - which yeah, I know, these names have no fucking consistency. These guys are the scariest. They walk through shadows. Literally slipping between two dark pces like they’re cracks in reality. As far as we know, only sunlight kills these guys. The good news? They don’t drink blood like the other two, they eat souls. Which, while bad, isn’t what’s happening here. Not our guy. Thank God.

  By the end of the documents, I’m colder than when I started. I hoped that the knowledge would make me feel more prepared. But it doesn’t. It just makes the fear more real. I haven’t figured anything out, other than that I’m out of my depth and still on my own.

  Notes in hand, I head for the basement. I’m ready to colpse - today has been a write-off. Halfway down the stairs, my phone buzzes.

  Jamie: Sorry, this is stupid - but am I a bad person?

  I walk and type.

  Niamh: nooo! definitely not. why do you think that?

  I know why he thinks that. Of course I know. Because of Cassie. Because of me.

  Jamie: I think I upset somebody & I don’t know how.?Jamie: This girl...?Jamie: She looked at me like I was a monster.

  I’m halfway through typing a reply when I push open the door to my room - and nearly drop my phone to the floor.

  Something’s there. A heavy shape hunched at the end of my bed, swallowed by the dark. I freeze, every muscle tensing, a heartbeat away from screaming -

  - and then I flick on the light.

  I’m not relieved by what I see. Not even close. I wish it was a fucking vampire. Instead, I’m looking at the hulking, awkward form of Tommy Garrick, sitting stiffly on my bed. His expression is desperate and defensive. He’s waiting for me.

  Of course he is.

  I exhale slowly, pulling the door shut behind me and shrugging off my coat like this is routine. The fear in my chest folds itself down in resignation. Of course I was right. It had to be him.

  "Hello, Tommy," I say.

  He flinches slightly, as if he expected me to scream or sh out. As if me being calm is the more terrifying outcome.

  I step closer, arms folded. "What are you doing in my room?"

  "I-"

  "Need some advice on how to treat trans women?"

  I let the sarcasm hit him like a sp.

  His jaw drops. Genuinely shocked. "How did you- Have you been spying on me, MH?"

  I shrug. "Lucky guess."

  There are probably a hundred gym-bro morons called Thomas in the city. But Lexi’s description felt too familiar. And with the luck that I’ve been having this week, there was only one way this was going.

  He frowns, but doesn’t push it.

  "You do not tell anybody about this, okay?" he says, chest puffing out in a threat. "Or, or - I’ll tell Graham that you attacked me, and he’ll lock you back up, yeah?"

  I stare at him, dead-eyed. "Tommy, I really don’t care about anything you do."

  It’s not bravado. It’s fact. He’s not scary. Just another brainless man who thinks that he can threaten me into compliance.

  He grunts - something pathetic and caught in his throat.

  "I’ve met a girl," he says, muttering, gaze fixed on the floor. "She’s amazing, but she’s..."

  "Trans," I say, ftly, cutting him off before he can say something worse. Afraid of what I might do if he dared insult Lexi in front of me.

  "Yeah," he says, still staring at the ground. "And I don’t care. I thought I would, but seeing her there... I just didn’t care. But, I don’t know how to do it. And I know that you know how. So, please, MH, help me."

  I look at the sb of meat on my bed and let out a sharp, breathless ugh as I pace. The absurdity of this week has officially hit critical mass. I thought we’d peaked at TERF vampires, but now I’m giving sensitivity training to the dumbest man in the office.

  "Well, here’s the first thing," I say, stopping mid-stroll to gre at him. "If somebody tells you that they want to be called something - then you call them it."

  "I don’t under-"

  "Maisie. My name’s Maisie. Not MH. Maisie."

  He frowns, confused like I’ve changed the rules of a game we were midway through pying.

  "But-"

  "But, nothing," I snap. "That’s rule number one of allyship. If somebody tells you who they are, believe them."

  Yeah, I’ve twisted the meaning of that phrase slightly. But it fits. Close enough.

  He grumbles, head ducked. "Fine, Maisie." He puts particur emphasis on my name. "What’s the second rule?"

  I nod slowly, giving him a rare look of approval. Appeasement, sure - but I’ll take it.

  "Thank you. The second rule is that you treat her like you would any other woman."

  "Even if she has-"

  "Yes," I say, loud enough to echo. "No matter what she has. If that makes you uncomfortable, then end it with her. Don’t put her through it, Tommy."

  His hands rise defensively. "I don’t think it bothers me."

  I study him for a beat too long. He really believes it. Maybe that’s the truth in private, under low light, when nobody’s watching. But what about when he has to introduce her to his mates at the gym? What about when they call him gay? I don’t believe him - but he does.

  "Good."

  "Is there a third rule?"

  I wave my hand through the air. "That about covers it, to be honest. It’s really quite simple."

  But just as I think we’re done, a darker current rises inside of me. The one that’s been simmering since Ava walked through the door earlier. I stop pacing. My voice deepens.

  "But, a little rule from me. If you hurt her, in any way, Tommy Garrick - then you’ll be telling Graham through a fucking feeding tube, yeah?"

  He looks at me with confused eyes, still catching up. But the message nds.

  He leaves a few minutes ter, and I’m finally alone again. The silence doesn’t bring peace - it just reminds me of how tired I am. I sit down, unsure if my shaking is from fury or exhaustion. Probably both.

  And tomorrow, I’m trapped in a car with Sadie Cross. No rest for the wicked.

  LilAgarwal