ASHES of YOUTH

Both things happened at once: Kayla’s grip tightened on her book, Icky’s foot slipped on a lower shelf rung, and—

Craaack.

The sound was like thunder in the silence. Kayla yelped and stumbled back as her shelf lurched forward. She tried to push it upright again, panic shooting through her, but she was too small against the sheer weight.

Icky, on his end, clung desperately to his wobbling shelf.

“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!” he squeaked, scrambling down—but the effort only made it tilt more.

Then it happened.

The first bookshelf toppled forward, its bulk crashing into the next with a deep, splintering thud. That one groaned and shifted before falling into another. It was a horrifying, slow-motion domino effect, shelves collapsing one by one, like giants being felled in a forest.

Kayla gasped, frozen, as a wall of leather-bound encyclopedias spilled open around her feet. Icky dived to the side, rolling dramatically, narrowly avoiding being pinned.

By the time the noise reached the far end of the library, dust swirled thick in the air and the room was shaking with the echoes of destruction.

And there was Poe.

They had been standing in the very last aisle, coolly flipping through a thin, weathered poetry collection. The sudden rumbling drew their eyes upward, just as the shelf in front of them gave its final groan and began to topple forward.

Poe didn’t flinch. They simply extended a hand and plucked a book from the air—a worn anthology of Russian verse—at the exact moment the shelf collapsed. Dust cascaded around them like stage smoke.

Silence fell.

Poe’s silhouette emerged from between the toppled wood and scattered paper. They stared down the long row of destruction—aisle after aisle of collapsed shelves—and then at Kayla and Icky, both covered in dust, frozen like kids who’d broken a priceless vase.

Kayla was clutching her art book to her chest like it was evidence.

Icky was on his knees, panting, a thick dictionary sitting open on his head like a hat.

Poe tilted their head, expression unreadable, book still in hand. Finally, in a voice so dry it might’ve been carved from stone, they said:

“…Idiots.”

The word echoed through the ruined library.

Kayla buried her face in her hands, groaning,

“I just wanted one book…”

Icky pointed at her instantly.

“It was HER fault!”

“You were climbing the shelf!” Kayla shot back, muffled through her palms.

“Yeah, well you were PULLING it!”

The two of them bickered in the rubble, dust rising like smoke from their hair and clothes. Poe just stood at the end of the aisle, book tucked under their arm, eyes sharp as glass. They didn’t need to say anything more—because the silence and the disaster spoke for them.

The silence that followed was suffocating. You could still hear dust trickling off the splintered wood, the faint flutter of loose pages as they settled on the floor like fallen leaves. Kayla and Icky’s voices—raised, defensive, absurd—were the only sound against the carnage of hundreds of toppled shelves.

The final echo of splintering wood faded into a ringing silence. The library was unrecognizable—rows of proud shelves reduced to a jagged maze of timber, broken spines, and open pages strewn across the floor.

Then came the dust.

It rolled outward in heavy clouds, stirred from the fall of hundreds of books and decades of neglect hidden high above the shelves. Fine gray motes swirled through the fluorescent light beams, hanging in the air like smoke.

Kayla coughed once, then twice, sharp and desperate. Her eyes stung, tears welling as the grit hit her sinuses. She pressed her wrist against her face, but it didn’t stop the inevitable: a thin, miserable sneeze cracked out of her.

“Ahh—hh-CHhhhuuhhh!” She sniffled, blinking rapidly, voice cracking through the next cough. “N-not good… I—” Another sneeze cut her off. Her allergies weren’t life-threatening, but in a storm of dust like this, they were merciless.

Icky, who had rolled dramatically across the floor to avoid being crushed, pushed himself onto his elbows. His wide frog eyes darted around the haze, throat inflating nervously. “Uhhh, guys? I think I can taste the air—” He hacked, smacked his chest, then coughed again. “Yeah. Definitely taste it.”

Through the haze, a darker silhouette moved—steady, calm, precise. Poe.

They had been right there when the shelves went down, and for a moment they were little more than a shadow with eyes, framed against the rising dust cloud. Now they stepped closer, a hand tightening around the thin poetry volume still clutched against their ribs.

Kayla squinted at them through watery eyes, sneezing into her sleeve again. “P-Poe, I—hhHHhh—!” Another sharp sneeze shook her small frame. She stumbled slightly, overwhelmed by the burning in her nose and throat.

Poe’s head tilted, expression unreadable. For a moment it looked like they might simply watch, cool as ever, detached as the dust swirled. Then, without a word, their shoulders rolled back.

A sudden rustle filled the aisle as Poe stretched their wings wide. Feathers, dark as midnight oil, unfurled into the haze. With one powerful sweep—then another—the air shifted. The current stirred, swirling dust away from Kayla and pushing it down the aisle like smoke before a storm wind. Pages scattered, flipping wildly across the floor.

Kayla gasped at the rush of fresher air around her face. The stinging lessened, her coughing softened, and she blinked at Poe through watery eyes.

They didn’t meet her gaze. Their wings moved with precise rhythm, fanning the dust until a clear pocket formed around the three of them.

Icky sat up, coughing once more before grinning through the mess. “Whoa—okay, dramatic much? You’re like—like a giant bird fan. A gothic air conditioner!”

Poe ignored him. Their eyes flicked to Kayla instead. She was still red-cheeked, still sniffling, but no longer doubling over with sneezes.

“You’re fragile,” Poe said simply. Their voice was low, sharp, but it carried an odd weight—half insult, half reluctant observation.

Kayla wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, embarrassed. “I… I have allergies,” she muttered, voice small. “Dust and—hhffhh—stuff like that.”

Another controlled sweep of Poe’s wings pushed the last of the haze down the far aisle. Dust settled onto toppled shelves, pages, and broken wood, leaving the air in their immediate circle cleaner, almost breathable again.

Kayla looked down, hugging her art history tome tight to her chest. She hated the heat in her cheeks, hated feeling like a burden. But she couldn’t stop the quiet, rasping “…Thanks.”

Poe folded their wings back in with a fluid, practiced motion. The silence stretched as feathers brushed against one another, the sound oddly soft against the ruin. They didn’t answer right away. When they finally spoke, their words were dry as ever:

“Don’t thank me. Just… don’t get buried alive next time.”

Kayla glanced up at them, meeting their unreadable eyes. For a second—just a second—there was something softer there, almost human. Then it was gone, buried under that icy mask.

Icky, meanwhile, clapped his webbed hands together, scattering dust from his fingers. “Okay, okay! No big deal. We didn’t totally destroy the entire library. Just… most of it. Maybe like—half. Or three-quarters.”

Kayla groaned into her book. Poe shut their eyes as though wishing for patience from some unseen god.

But through all of it, Kayla kept sneaking looks at Poe—remembering the sweep of their wings, the way they had instinctively shielded her in that choking haze. She’d never say it out loud, not here, not with Icky already making jokes. But for once, Poe hadn’t just watched.

They’d acted.

And in the aftermath of ruin, that meant something.

The silence didn’t last.

Somewhere deeper in the library, beyond the wreckage of broken wood and scattered pages, a door clicked open. Heavy footsteps thudded across linoleum—measured, authoritative. The sound of a security guard, or worse, a staff member who actually cared about the state of the building.

Icky’s throat swelled with a nervous croak, his wide eyes darting toward the noise. “Ohhhh no, nope, nope, not sticking around for detention of doom.” He scrambled to his feet, dust puffing off him in clouds, and without hesitation grabbed Kayla by the wrist. “C’mon, let’s bounce!”

Kayla nearly dropped her book in the panic. She hugged it tighter instead, stumbling after him. “Wait, what? We can’t just—!”

“Yeah, we can!” Icky hissed, tugging her harder. His grip was clammy but strong, desperation making him reckless. “Unless you want to explain this to a very angry librarian?”

Before Kayla could argue, a second hand—cold, precise—caught her other wrist. Poe. Their gaze was flinty, unreadable, but their voice carried sharp and low between the approaching footsteps.

“Run.”

And that was that.

The three of them bolted down the nearest aisle, weaving through splintered shelves and spilled tomes. Kayla’s sneakers slipped on loose paper, sending her half-skidding, but Icky yanked her upright with manic energy. Poe moved like shadow, wings tight against their back, every step efficient and controlled.

The footsteps grew louder. A flashlight beam swept across the far end of the ruined aisles, cutting a white line through the dust. Someone shouted—a harsh voice, “Who’s there? Stop!”

“Not happening!” Icky yelped, lunging forward. He spotted a set of tall windows along the side wall, panes old and rattling in their wooden frames. Without breaking stride, he jammed his shoulder against the glass.

Nothing. The window rattled, but stayed shut.

“Move,” Poe said flatly, stepping in beside him. Their fist clenched around the poetry book they still carried, and in one sharp motion, they smashed the spine of it into the glass. Cracks spiderwebbed instantly. The second hit shattered it completely, shards raining outward.

Kayla gasped, frozen just a heartbeat too long at the sight of fractured glass and the gaping darkness beyond. Then Icky’s hand shoved at her shoulder. “Ladies first!”

She barely had time to protest before he practically pushed her through. Kayla ducked and clambered awkwardly over the jagged sill, the cool night air rushing against her flushed face. For one dizzying moment she was suspended—and then her feet hit the outer ledge. It was narrow, dangerously so, and the ground was at least twelve feet below.

“I can’t—” she started, panic flickering.

“You can,” Poe’s voice cut in behind her, low but steady. One hand pressed against her back—not pushing, not forcing, just steadying. “Jump.”

Kayla’s chest tightened. She hugged her art history tome tighter, closed her eyes, and leapt.

Air rushed past her ears. She hit the grass hard, knees jolting, but stayed on her feet. Dust and adrenaline burned her throat, but she was alive.

Icky launched after her with far less grace. He tucked midair like an Olympic diver, yelling, “FROG POWER!” before hitting the ground with a dramatic roll. He popped back up with arms spread wide. “Stuck the landing! Ten outta ten, no notes.”

Kayla groaned, brushing shards of glass from her sweater. “You’re insane.”

“Correction—awesome,” Icky chirped, brushing himself off.

Poe came last. They stepped through the broken frame with eerie calm, wings half-spread, and dropped from the ledge. For a heartbeat, the feathers caught the air—slowing their fall just enough that they touched the ground soundlessly. A dark angel, descending.

Kayla’s breath caught in her throat. The image seared into her mind: Poe framed in fractured moonlight, wings like obsidian blades fanning behind them, glass dust sparkling in their feathers. They looked untouchable, untouching—somewhere between human and myth.

Her heart hammered.

Then Poe folded their wings and gave her a single, sharp look. “Move. Before they circle the building.”

Kayla blinked out of her daze, clutching her book like a shield. “R-right.”

Icky was already sprinting down the lawn, waving frantically for them to follow. Behind them, voices barked orders and flashlights swept across the broken window.

Kayla and Poe ran.

Grass whipped at their ankles, the cool night biting sharp against the dust still clinging to their lungs. Every step pounded with the echo of crashing shelves, every breath tight with adrenaline. But above it all, Kayla couldn’t shake that single image: black wings spread wide in the moonlight, shielding her from the dust, carrying Poe down like a fallen star.

A dark angel.

And she wasn’t sure if that made her feel safer… or more afraid.

The sprint across the lawn felt endless. Kayla’s lungs burned with every breath, the taste of dust still clinging to her throat despite the cool night air rushing in. Her art history tome thudded heavily against her ribs as she ran—ridiculous, maybe, but letting it go felt impossible. It was the whole reason she had been in the library in the first place, and abandoning it now would make all of this—every toppled shelf, every glass shard, every pounding footstep behind them—mean nothing.

Icky was ahead of her, bounding forward with the unsteady grace of someone half-leaping, half-running. His long legs gave him bursts of speed, but he couldn’t seem to decide whether to sprint like a human or hop like a frog. He kept looking over his shoulder, his wide eyes catching the glow of the security guard’s flashlight. “They’re gaining on us! Ohhh no, we’re totally gonna get expelled, arrested, executed, I don’t know which order!”

Kayla pushed harder, legs aching. “Just—keep running—!”

Behind them, Poe was silent as ever, their footfalls so light that Kayla had to remind herself they were there. When she dared to glance back, she caught a glimpse of them, wings tight against their back, feathers catching faint streaks of moonlight. They weren’t even breathing hard. Their expression was unreadable, but their eyes were locked ahead, scanning the darkness like a hunter charting every escape path.

The flashlight beams grew sharper, closer. Voices barked again. “Stop! Don’t move!”

“Don’t stop!” Icky yelped, his panic cranking higher. He cut sharply toward a cluster of shrubs near the back edge of the campus lawn. “This way! Shortcut!”

Kayla stumbled after him, but the moment her shoes hit the uneven ground, her ankle rolled hard to the side. Pain jolted up her leg, sharp and immediate. She bit back a cry, clutching her book tighter even as she staggered. Her body wanted to fold, to crumple into the damp grass, but she forced herself to limp forward, teeth gritted.

Poe was suddenly beside her. Their hand shot out, steadying her elbow. They didn’t stop running, didn’t even slow—just redirected her momentum with surgical precision, pulling her along while their eyes never left the dark horizon.

“You’re slowing down,” Poe said, their voice low, cutting. Not cruel. Just fact.

Kayla’s cheeks burned with shame. “I—twisted my—ankle—”

“Then lean,” Poe ordered, tightening their grip. Their pace adjusted—not slower, but efficient, balanced, as if they’d already calculated how much of her weight they could carry without breaking stride.

Kayla’s chest heaved, every step a throb of pain. But she clung to their arm, forcing her legs to move.

Ahead, Icky crashed through the shrubs like a one-frog demolition crew. Branches snapped, leaves rained down. “Almost there, almost there!” he shouted, voice breaking into a nervous laugh. “Oh my god, this is exactly how horror movies start!”

Kayla winced as another shout cut across the lawn behind them. The guards were closer now—close enough she could hear the jingle of their belts, the thud of heavy boots pounding the earth.

Poe’s grip tightened around her arm. “Jump,” they said.

“What?” Kayla blinked through the sting of sweat in her eyes.

“Ditch the pain. Jump each step. Like this.” Poe’s tone carried no hesitation. Their hand pressed firmly against her side, urging her to match their rhythm. And somehow—against logic, against pain—her body followed. She stopped trying to run properly and began springing forward in bursts, landing hard but moving faster, the momentum pulling her along.

Every impact hurt. Every jolt made her ankle scream. But she didn’t stop.

Icky burst out of the bushes first, flailing his arms like a madman as he pointed to a narrow service tunnel at the edge of the lawn, half-hidden by shadows. “There! There! Underground access! I saw it open once during soccer practice, swear to god!”

Kayla and Poe emerged seconds later, Kayla stumbling but refusing to fall. Her breath came in ragged pulls, her head swimming with the overload of dust, adrenaline, and pain. She didn’t even have time to process the absurdity of what Icky had just said—because the ground behind them exploded with light. Flashlights cut through the dark, sweeping across the grass, catching the tips of Poe’s wings in a flare of white.

Poe didn’t hesitate. They shoved Kayla forward, hard enough that she nearly toppled into Icky. “Get inside.”

Kayla’s chest heaved as she looked at the gaping mouth of the tunnel—a maintenance shaft leading down into blackness. It looked like a trap, a hole into nowhere.

“I—I can’t see—”

Poe’s voice sliced through her panic. “Trust me.”

Kayla swallowed hard. And then she dropped down, her book clutched against her chest, into the dark.

Icky followed with a theatrical shriek, tumbling after her.

Poe lingered just long enough to spread their wings once more. They faced the approaching lights, feathers bristling in sharp silhouette. For one long moment, it almost looked like they might stay and fight, to face the guards head-on. But then—with a fluid motion—they folded their wings tight and vanished into the shaft, the darkness swallowing them whole.

Above, the guards reached the shrubs, beams of light cutting wildly through the night. They found broken branches, shattered glass glinting faintly on the grass, but the field beyond was empty.

Kayla’s heart pounded in the black silence below. The air was damp, thick, reeking faintly of rust and mold. She could hear Icky’s rapid panting, the faint brush of Poe’s feathers, her own hammering pulse.

They had escaped. For now.

But in the suffocating dark, clutching her book and fighting the ache in her ankle, Kayla couldn’t stop replaying the last few moments. Poe’s hand on her arm. Their voice cutting through her panic. The wings spread against the moonlight.

It hadn’t been just survival. Not really.

It had been… protection.

And that terrified her more than the guards ever could.

The tunnel swallowed them whole.

The moment Kayla’s feet touched the damp concrete floor, the difference in air hit her—humid, stale, carrying the smell of rust, wet stone, and something faintly organic, like moss clinging to old pipes. Her sneakers squeaked slightly against the slick ground, and when she tried to put weight on her twisted ankle, a sharp jolt of pain forced a hiss through her teeth. She pressed her back against the wall, clutching her book like it was her anchor, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

Icky landed beside her with a graceless thump, his elbows and knees knocking noisily against the tunnel walls as he scrambled upright. “Ow—okay, ten outta ten on the adrenaline, zero outta ten on the landing!” His voice bounced off the narrow concrete passage, far too loud in the suffocating dark. “Do maintenance tunnels come with maps? Or snacks? Please tell me snacks.”

Kayla shot him a look, but she didn’t trust her voice yet. Her lungs still burned from the dust, and her throat was tight.

Then Poe dropped in. They landed soundlessly, crouched low for balance, the faint swish of feathers brushing the air the only hint of their descent. For a long moment they stayed there, listening—head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed. Kayla almost held her breath, as if waiting for permission to exhale.

Above them, muffled voices shouted across the lawn. The guards. A flashlight beam briefly flickered across the tunnel entrance before retreating. Then came the clang of radios, sharp orders barked.

Poe straightened slowly. Their silhouette was unreadable in the dark, but their voice carried low and certain:

“They won’t come down here. Too narrow. Too unknown.”

Kayla swallowed, hugging the heavy book tighter to her chest. “H-how can you be so sure?”

Poe’s eyes glinted faintly in the dark. “Because they’re cowards.”

The words had a finality to them that shut down the question.

Icky fidgeted, his throat inflating and deflating with nervous energy. “Sooo… uh… do we just… wait here? Or, y’know, crawl deeper into sewer hell?” His voice cracked slightly on “hell,” and he gave a forced laugh, scratching behind his neck. “Not that I mind. I’m part frog. I’ll thrive.”

Kayla gave him a weak glare, still catching her breath. “You almost brought a whole building down on yourself.”

“Hey!” Icky puffed out his chest. “Technically we almost brought it down. Equal blame, equal chaos!” He pointed at her, then waved his arms toward Poe. “And, uh, silent judgment bird over there is complicit by proximity.”

Poe didn’t dignify him with a reply. Instead, they stepped closer to Kayla, and for the first time she realized just how small she must have looked compared to them in this narrow tunnel—dust-streaked, one ankle trembling from injury, hair sticking to her damp forehead.

“Let me see it,” Poe said quietly.

Kayla blinked. “See what?”

“Your ankle.”

Her immediate instinct was to shake her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” There was no bite in their tone this time. Just fact. They extended a hand, palm steady, waiting.

Kayla hesitated, heat rising to her cheeks. She hated this—the vulnerability, the spotlight on her weakness. She wanted to argue, to insist she could handle it. But when she tried to shift her weight again, the pain shot so sharply through her calf that she almost cried out. She winced, biting her lip.

Without waiting for her protest, Poe crouched in front of her. Their movements were careful, deliberate. They set their poetry book gently aside, then reached for her ankle.

Kayla stiffened, back pressing harder into the wall. Her voice came out small. “I—I can do it myself—”

“Quiet,” Poe said softly. Not harsh, not dismissive. Just a quiet command, as if the conversation didn’t need to happen.

Their fingers brushed her sneaker laces, loosening them with surprising precision for someone who moved with such austerity. When they slid the shoe off, Kayla sucked in a breath. The swelling was already visible in the dim light—a purpling around the joint, tender and raw.

Poe’s hand cupped her heel with the same strange mixture of detachment and gentleness, tilting her foot slightly to check the range of motion. Kayla flinched at the sharp sting, gripping her book tighter until her knuckles whitened.

“Not broken,” Poe murmured. “Just sprained. You’ll limp for a week if you don’t rest.”

Kayla opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her throat was too tight for words.

From beside them, Icky leaned in, wide eyes gleaming. “Wow, look at Nurse Poe over here! Gonna prescribe her some—what do doctors do—band-aids? Magical crow feathers? Wait, do you even have—”

“Icky,” Poe said without looking at him, “shut up.”

The frog froze, then let out a quiet, sheepish croak.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint dripping somewhere deeper in the tunnel. Poe adjusted Kayla’s foot back into her shoe, tightening the laces just enough to give her support without cutting off circulation. When they straightened, their shadow loomed over her again, wings brushing faintly against the tunnel wall.

“You’ll walk,” they said. “Slowly. Lean when you need to.” Their gaze flicked briefly to Icky, sharper now. “And you’ll help her.”

Icky blinked, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

Kayla exhaled shakily, her chest tightening with a confusing mix of gratitude and frustration. Poe’s words weren’t tender, weren’t even particularly kind—but their actions told another story.

She hugged the book tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “…Thank you.”

Poe’s eyes flickered to her for half a second, unreadable as ever. Then they looked away, wings folding tighter against their back as if retreating.

“Don’t thank me. Just keep moving.”

The three of them began forward, into the dark of the tunnel. Kayla’s limp slowed them, but Poe didn’t complain, and Icky—though jittery and grumbling—kept close enough that she could lean if she needed to.

The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of dripping water and the scuff of their shoes. Kayla’s mind swirled despite her exhaustion, replaying the memory of Poe’s hand steady against her arm, their wings sweeping dust from the air, their eyes fixed on hers in that split-second of trust.

The book pressed against her ribs was heavy, but the weight in her chest was heavier still.

Because for the first time since Simon claimed her, someone else had steadied her.

It started as nothing more than a dumb competition.

Kayla had been cleaning up the art studio after her late-night session, half-listening as Simon bragged about how he could paint better “if he wanted to,” while Rabie kept snapping selfies in front of the half-done canvases. Icky, restless as always, bounced around the room like a kid in a candy store, poking at brushes, dipping his fingers into leftover paint cups, smearing streaks onto spare scraps of paper.

“Don’t touch that,” Kayla warned, half-smiling as she lugged a bucket toward the sink. “That’s oil-based. It won’t come off your skin easy.”

Icky only grinned, his gold-striped fingertips already dotted with bright red.

“Pfft. C’mon, Kayla, I am art.” He spread his hands like he was showing off. “Living, breathing masterpiece.”

“Living and breathing through your skin, dumbass,” Poe muttered darkly from the corner, flipping through a book. They didn’t even look up, but there was sharpness in their voice. “Keep playing, and you’ll suffocate yourself.”

Icky rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue at them.

That’s when it happened. He tried to swing himself up onto a high stool, feet slipping on a splatter of paint water left on the floor. The stool tipped, and in his flailing attempt to catch himself, his hand slammed against the edge of a large paint bucket left open.

The whole thing went.

Thick black paint — glossy, tar-like acrylic meant for murals — cascaded forward in a wave and splashed up his body, drenching his chest, arms, and half his face.

The sound that ripped out of Icky wasn’t his usual playful squawk. It was a strangled, panicked wheeze.

“Shit!” Kayla dropped the bucket she was carrying, rushing to him. “Oh god—oh god no—”

Simon stood frozen for a beat, his bravado knocked out of him at the sight. Then he barked orders like he was on autopilot. “Don’t just stand there! Get water—NOW!”

Icky clawed at his skin, nails scraping uselessly against the thick paint. His chest heaved in shallow gasps, each breath tighter than the last. Frogs didn’t just breathe with lungs—they needed their skin free to absorb oxygen. Now that skin was sealed under a suffocating layer of synthetic plastic.

“Get it off me!” Icky choked, voice breaking. His movements turned frantic, dangerous, like he might tear at his own skin if it meant breathing again.

Poe was already moving, their usual cold detachment slipping just enough to show urgency. They grabbed the nearest jug of clean water and dumped it over Icky’s head, but the paint just streaked, smearing instead of rinsing away.

“Oil-based!” Kayla gasped, grabbing towels. “Water won’t—won’t work—” Her voice shook. She knew enough chemistry to recognize the problem: this wasn’t water-soluble paint.

Maggie shoved past the others, surprisingly steady. “Soap. Dish soap—anything that cuts oil.” She barreled toward the sink, ripping open cabinets.

Meanwhile, Icky’s breaths were turning into ragged gasps, his hands flailing blindly at the air as if he could claw oxygen from it. His bright eyes bulged, wild and wet.

“Stay with me, hermano!” Rabie cried, gripping his arm even as he thrashed. She was pale, panicked, her usual gossiping replaced by raw fear. “Don’t close your eyes, don’t you dare—”

Simon crouched down, trying to pin Icky’s arms so he wouldn’t hurt himself. His voice broke through the chaos like a whip: “LOOK AT ME. Breathe with your lungs, you hear me? Slow. In through your mouth. You’ve got lungs too. Use them!”

But Icky only shook his head violently, chest spasming as if his body refused to believe him.

Kayla was back with bottles of dish soap, slamming them on the floor and pouring straight onto Icky’s chest. Her small hands rubbed furiously, creating froth that loosened the slick black coating. Maggie returned with a bucket of warm water, dousing him again. Little by little, the thick paint broke into streaks, sliding away in greasy rivers.

The room smelled sharp—detergent, wet paint, fear-sweat.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Icky’s gasps slowed. His chest heaved with deep, desperate inhales. His body sagged against Simon’s arms, utterly spent.

Everyone froze, waiting, watching.

Then Icky coughed—a wet, hacking sound—and wheezed: “I—told you… I’m… art.”

Rabie slapped his shoulder with trembling hands. “Not funny, cabrón! You almost died!”

Poe exhaled shakily, running a hand over their face. “Idiot.” It came out softer than usual, almost… protective.

Kayla wiped her forehead, her hands streaked with suds and black stains. She looked like she’d just fought a war. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Icky leaned back against Simon’s chest, eyelids fluttering. “Mmm… not… my best idea…” His voice was faint, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a ghost of his usual grin.

Simon’s hand stayed on Icky’s shoulder longer than necessary. His jaw was tight, his usual arrogance cracked open just enough to show what was underneath: fear he’d almost lost one of his crew.

“Next time,” Simon muttered, voice rough, “you listen when someone tells you to stop screwing around.”

Icky just gave a weak thumbs-up before passing out, exhausted but alive.

For hours after the accident, Icky slept on the studio couch, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and turpentine. His breathing had steadied, though every exhale rattled like damp paper. The others hovered nearby, too shaken to leave. Kayla kept rinsing black-streaked rags in the sink until her fingers were raw, while Simon paced the floor in tight, controlled strides, pretending he wasn’t checking Icky’s chest rise every few seconds.

It wasn’t until the next morning that the real change began.

Kayla was the first to notice. She’d stayed behind on the beanbag chair with a sketchbook in her lap, dozing and scribbling in turns. When Icky stirred, she reached instinctively for his arm — and froze.

The skin along his forearm looked… wrong.

At first, she thought it was leftover paint. But when she rubbed gently with her thumb, the blackened patch lifted, curling away like a thin film.

“Icky,” she whispered, her voice edged with unease. “Wake up. Something’s—something’s happening.”

He groaned, blinking groggily. “Mmm? Wha—” He tried to sit up, and that was when the skin on his shoulder cracked open in a jagged line.

The peeling spread quickly. Large flakes sloughed off, curling at the edges like dried glue. Beneath the dead layer, fresh skin gleamed damply. It wasn’t the smooth golden yellow they all knew. This time, bold black swirls and jagged stripes cut across the new surface, twisting over his collarbone, spiraling around his biceps, like ink poured straight into his body.

“¡Madre de Dios!” Rabie gasped, stumbling backward with wide eyes. “He’s—he’s molting.”

Poe leaned in, feathered brow furrowing. “Not just molting. Changing.” Their voice was low, skeptical, but tinged with fascination.

Icky sat there stunned, running his fingers over the flaking sheets on his chest. They came away with brittle fragments of old skin, paper-thin and weightless. His expression shifted from fear to awe, then to something like pride.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, a grin spreading. “I look badass.”

“Badass?” Simon’s voice was sharp, but it cracked under strain. He crouched in front of Icky, eyes locked on the raw patches still shedding. “You almost stopped breathing yesterday. And now—now your skin’s falling off like you’re a damn reptile!”

“Frogs shed,” Icky said defensively, but his tone wavered. He tugged a chunk free from his jawline and flicked it aside. “It’s normal.”

“Not like this,” Maggie cut in, arms crossed. Her sharp teeth worried her lower lip as she stared. “Patterns don’t just… rewrite themselves overnight.”

Kayla swallowed hard. Her artist’s mind couldn’t help but catalogue it: the jagged black slashes against gold, almost like tribal markings. They seemed to pulse faintly in the studio light, alive in a way paint could never be.

“Does it hurt?” she asked softly.

Icky shook his head, though his shoulders trembled. “Feels… weird. Like itching from the inside out.” He peeled another sheet off his chest, revealing a fresh streak of black spiraling over his sternum. His grin returned, wobbly but sincere. “Guess I’m… remixing myself.”

Rabie laughed nervously, but her eyes were wet. “Remixing? Idiota, you scared me so bad I thought I’d have to plan your funeral.”

Simon’s hand shot out, grabbing Icky’s wrist before he could peel more. His claws pressed just enough to stop him. “Don’t touch it. Not until we know if it’s safe.” His tone was commanding, but his grip shook faintly.

The room went quiet. Everyone watched as Icky’s old skin continued to slough off in curling sheets, littering the couch and floor. Beneath it, the golden-yellow frog they knew was gone, replaced by something darker, sharper, marked by black stripes and blotches like smoke scars.

Kayla finally whispered what they were all thinking:

“You’re… different now.”

Icky blinked at her, then spread his arms like he was presenting a masterpiece again — but his usual cocky grin faltered under the weight of the moment.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softer. “Guess I am.”

Kayla popped another almond in her mouth, then glanced at him. “You know,” she said around her chewing, “I’ve never seen you eat these.”

Simon’s eyes slid toward her, suspiciously slow. “Eat what?”

She held up the bowl and rattled it lightly, the sound of nuts clinking against glass. “These. Nuts, berries, grapes — little snack stuff. You never touch them. Not once.”

For a beat, Simon looked like he might come up with some grand, pretentious answer. Something like I’m above such peasant food or my refined palate only craves feasts fit for a king. His ego twitched in his grin. But instead, he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like she’d just called him out in front of millions.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” he muttered finally. “It’s just…” His claws flexed against the cushion, sharp tips catching on the fabric. “…They’re too damn small.”

Kayla blinked, confused, then let out a laugh. “Too small?”

Simon sat up straighter now, defensive but leaning into it. “Look at these things, Kayla!” He jabbed a claw toward her bowl. “They’re pathetic. Tiny little rocks. I need, like—” he held his massive hands apart, fingers stretching — “a whole mountain of them before I even taste anything. Otherwise, I look like an idiot trying to pick up a pea with construction equipment.”

Kayla bit her lip to hold back her giggle as he pantomimed clumsy grabbing motions with his claws. “So, what, you’re saying almonds are beneath you?”

“I’m saying,” Simon growled, voice dropping into that pompous register he used on stream, “if the universe wanted me to eat almonds, it would’ve made them the size of apples. Or, I don’t know, engineered a pistachio the size of a steak. Then we’d be talking.”

Kayla laughed outright this time, tossing a peanut at his chest. It bounced off and fell into his lap. “Or maybe the universe just didn’t design snacks for ten-foot dragon boys.”

"It's twelve, thank you very much." He looked down at the lone peanut like it had personally insulted him. Slowly, he picked it up between two claws, exaggerating the effort. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, focused as if this was the most delicate operation of his life.

Kayla leaned forward, smirking. “Careful. Don’t strain yourself.”

Simon scowled, then finally got it close enough to his mouth. He snapped it up, chewing with exaggerated gusto, then leaned back smugly. “See? Nailed it. Graceful as hell.”

Kayla raised an eyebrow. “Congrats. You ate… one peanut.”

“That’s all I needed,” Simon shot back, wiping his claws like he’d just slain a beast. “Proof of dominance. I win.”

Kayla laughed again, shaking her head. She popped a cashew into her mouth and nudged the bowl toward him. “You know, I could just make you a pile. Like a dragon hoard. A mountain of almonds. Then maybe it would be worth it for you.”

Simon’s grin sharpened, his pride instantly fed. “Now you’re talking my language. A proper feast. Bowls overflowing, like in those medieval paintings.” He leaned in closer, eyes glittering. “But only if you feed me. Otherwise, I’m not touching that pathetic little squirrel food.”

Kayla rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. She plucked another peanut, carefully balanced it on his lower lip like she was feeding a zoo animal, and waited.

Simon smirked, then snapped it up again with a quick flash of his teeth, sitting back with mock elegance. “Mmm. Delicious. Truly, you’ve outdone yourself, sweetheart.”

Kayla shook her head, laughing under her breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Simon stretched back out across the couch, folding his arms behind his head with smug satisfaction, “you love me.”