morpheu

It had been a mistake—staying too long near the merchant stalls, laughing with the baker’s daughter, standing in the sun where her face could be seen. She hadn't noticed the house master watching from the silk shop across the street. A man with gold-threaded robes and a calculating gaze, one who judged worth with a glance. And in that moment, he'd decided: Pretty enough.

"That one," he'd told his guards, voice cold and certain. "The Emperor’s harem has room for another."

And just like that, her fate was sealed.

Yn had been running ever since, slipping through side streets, dodging hands that reached for her. Her legs burned, her lungs screamed for air, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. She knew what happened to girls taken behind those gilded walls. They became ornaments. Playthings. Forgotten names and silent mouths.

"Get back here, girl!" a guard barked from behind, heavy boots pounding the ground. "Don’t make this harder!"

Harder? It was already impossible. She could hear the jangle of armor, the sharp whistle one man gave to signal the others. They were surrounding her, closing the trap like wolves circling prey.

She ducked into a narrow alley, heart pounding in her ears, only to skid to a halt. Another guard stood at the end, smirking, arms crossed as if he'd been waiting. Of course they knew her routes. The streets she called home were nothing compared to the reach of palace dogs.

Desperation clawed at her throat. She spun around, ready to risk another path, when a hand snatched her wrist. Rough. Unforgiving.

"Let go!" she snarled, twisting and kicking, but her strength was nothing against the iron grip of someone trained for this.

The guard yanked her forward, face impassive. "You should be grateful," he muttered, almost bored. "The palace will feed you. Dress you in silk. You’ll live better than you ever did here."

Yn spat at his feet. "I'd rather starve in the streets."

The streets blurred past in a rush of dust and panic. Yn thrashed in the iron grip of the palace guards, bare feet scraping against the rough stone as they dragged her away from the life she knew. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the muttered curses of the men hauling her toward the looming palace gates.

The slap came fast, sharp enough to make her ears ring. She tasted blood, but it only fueled the fire burning inside her chest. She thrashed, bit, kicked, but they were too many, too practiced. She was dragged, half-limp, through the streets she'd once run freely.

Onlookers turned away. No one interfered. Why would they? It wasn’t the first time a pretty girl had been plucked from the gutter for a higher purpose.

"Hold still, you little—!" one growled, tightening his grip on her wrist.

Yn’s answer was swift—a sharp twist and a vicious bite to the soft flesh of his hand. The guard yelped, jerking back, and she used the moment to kick at the other’s shin, adrenaline making her wild.

“Stupid girl!” The second guard stumbled, nearly dropping her. “You think this fight matters? You’re palace property now.”

“Like hell I am!” she spat, kicking again, heels digging into the ground as they pulled her forward. “You’ll have to kill me before I sit pretty in silk for some spoiled bastard!”

The third guard, older and wearier, only sighed. “They always fight,” he muttered. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

The palace walls loomed closer, golden in the dying light. Beautiful, cold, inescapable. A gilded cage. She’d heard the whispers from girls who’d been taken before. Once you passed through those gates, you were no longer a person. Just another flower in the Emperor's garden, waiting to wither.

She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. If she stopped fighting, if she let them take her into that gilded prison, she’d never see freedom again. Her fists lashed out, nails clawing at skin, voice raw from screaming as people on the streets turned away. No one interfered. No one ever interfered.

They reached the palace gates too soon. Tall, imposing, decorated with gold filigree that caught the dying light like fire. A beautiful lie.

The last thing she saw before the gates closed behind her was the sky turning crimson—like the universe itself was bleeding for her.

The guards didn’t slow. One yanked her forward by the waist, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of rice. She kicked and punched, but his armor dulled the blows.

“Let me go, damn you!” Yn snarled, beating her fists against his back. “I’m not something you can claim!”

The sun hung low over the palace, casting golden light through the lattice windows of the grand hall. Incense curled lazily in the air, failing to mask the bitterness of court politics. Zhéyàn, the Emperor, sat on his throne, sharp golden eyes half-lidded in boredom as the steward droned on.

“…and with the new batch of girls brought in from the outer provinces, Your Majesty, I’m certain you’ll find one to your liking,” the steward said, her tone practiced and smooth. “The ministers continue to whisper about heirs. A distraction might ease the pressure.”

Zhéyàn didn’t react, swirling the tea in his porcelain cup. He’d heard it all before. The officials, the nobles, even the servants—they all spoke of duty, legacy, and heirs. As though a womb could settle an empire.

The steward, an older woman with silver threaded through her dark hair, pressed on. “I selected them personally—educated, graceful, untouched by the corruption of the city. A few from the countryside, some from merchant families. The house master is already preparing them—”

A scream cut through the air, followed by the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the ground.

“Let me go, you bastards!”

The hall fell silent. Zhéyàn’s gaze flicked up, suddenly alert.

The steward paled. “What in the heavens—”

Another shout echoed through the open courtyard outside the hall, followed by a string of curses sharp enough to make the gathered officials exchange uneasy glances.

“Get off me! I’m not some prize to be bought and sold!”

The heavy wooden doors burst open, and two guards stumbled inside, struggling to restrain a young woman. Dirty, disheveled, and wild-eyed, she kicked and twisted with the kind of ferocity born from desperation.

One guard grunted as she drove her elbow into his ribs. “Hold her down, damn it!”

Zhéyàn leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.

The steward, flustered, hurried to explain. “Ah—this one, Your Majesty, was a last-minute acquisition. The house master saw her in the market and deemed her… suitable.”

“Suitable?” Zhéyàn echoed, watching as the girl—no, the woman—bit down on the arm of the second guard hard enough to draw blood.

The steward winced. “She was… less than compliant. But her looks—once cleaned up, of course—”

“Let. Me. GO!”

Zhéyàn didn’t move. He simply watched.

The tiger at his side, Huāng Xie, lifted its massive head, golden eyes narrowing as it observed the commotion with lazy interest.

Finally, Zhéyàn spoke, his voice calm but cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Enough.”

The room froze. The guards halted mid-step, one holding Yn by her upper arm, the other wiping blood from his lip.

Yn, breathless and trembling with adrenaline, snapped her gaze toward the throne.

Zhéyàn met her glare without flinching. Beneath the dirt and fury, she was striking—not just in appearance but in spirit. The concubine house broke most women before they even reached the palace gates. This one? She was still fighting.

“How charming,” he drawled, resting his chin on one hand. “The steward brings me flowers, and yet one arrives with thorns.”

The steward bowed hastily. “Your Majesty, I assure you, she’ll be trained into proper decorum. This behavior is—”

“Expected,” Zhéyàn interrupted, eyes never leaving Yn’s face. “A caged bird always beats its wings before it realizes the bars won’t break.”

Yn’s lip curled. “I’m not a bird. And I won’t stay in your damned cage.”

A sharp intake of breath swept through the hall. No one spoke to the Emperor like that.

Zhéyàn smiled, slow and deliberate. “Is that so?”

He rose from his seat, robes whispering against the polished floor as he descended the steps of the dais. The guards stiffened but didn’t move as their Emperor approached. Huāng Xie padded silently behind him, tail flicking.

Standing before Yn, Zhéyàn studied her like one might examine a curious artifact.

“Tell me, street rat,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear. “Do you know how many women have stood where you are now? Cleaned, polished, and presented like lacquered dolls?”

Yn’s breath hitched, but she refused to look away.

“They all came in with dreams of escape,” Zhéyàn continued, fingers brushing Huāng Xie’s fur as the tiger prowled closer. “Most realized too late that freedom in this palace is an illusion.”

Huāng Xie paused beside Yn, nose twitching as he sniffed at her dirt-streaked clothes.

The steward wrung her hands. “Your Majesty, if you’d prefer, we can return her to the house master and—”

“No.” Zhéyàn’s golden eyes gleamed. “Keep her.”

The words landed like stones in the hush that followed.

“Train her, clean her, dress her in silk if you must.” He tilted his head, smile sharpening. “But don’t break her. I find her far more interesting when she bites.”

With that, he turned and ascended the steps once more, Huāng Xie brushing past Yn’s side as if in silent approval.

The guards hesitated, waiting for further orders.

Zhéyàn waved a dismissive hand. “Take her away. Make sure she doesn’t destroy half the palace before nightfall.”

Yn, still catching her breath, clenched her jaw as the guards moved to drag her off again.

But this time, she didn’t scream.

She simply stared after the Emperor, defiance burning in her eyes like an ember refusing to die.

As she was pulled from the hall, the steward muttered under her breath.

“May the gods have mercy. That girl is going to be nothing but trouble.”

Zhéyàn heard—and smiled.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, settling back into his throne. “But what’s a kingdom without a little rebellion?”

The hall buzzed with uneasy murmurs as the guards dragged Yn away, her defiant glare lingering like smoke in the air. The steward, still pale from the scene, hurriedly bowed before Zhéyàn, her forehead nearly touching the polished floor.

“Your Majesty,” she began, voice tight with strained composure, “I deeply apologize for the disturbance. I had no idea the girl would be so… unruly.”

Zhéyàn, reclining in his seat once more, waved a hand lazily. His golden eyes glinted with something closer to amusement than anger.

The steward swallowed hard, choosing her words carefully. “Rest assured, I will personally speak to the girl. She’s clearly frightened and unaware of her place. Given time, I’m certain she can be… molded into something more fitting for the palace.”

Zhéyàn hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. “Do you intend to break her spirit entirely, Steward? That would be rather dull.”

The steward’s eyes widened. “N-no, Your Majesty. I only meant to ensure she understands the reality of her situation. I will calm her down, speak sense to her. The last thing we need is for her defiance to spread among the other girls.”

Zhéyàn leaned forward, golden gaze sharpening. “See that you don’t mistake control for obedience. I don’t want another lifeless doll paraded before me.”

Huāng Xie, the tiger, stretched languidly at the foot of the dais, golden eyes half-lidded as he rumbled in satisfaction.

The steward bowed deeper. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will handle the matter personally.”

Zhéyàn leaned back once more, the smile curling at the edge of his lips betraying his amusement.

“Good,” he murmured. “Do try. I look forward to seeing how long it takes for her to slip through your fingers “

The walls of the concubine house closed around Yn like a silk-covered cage—beautiful, suffocating, and inescapable. She stumbled into the courtyard, wrists raw from the ropes they'd only just cut loose. Her clothes, once practical and sturdy for street life, were torn and stained with dirt from her struggle. Stray strands of hair clung to her sweaty face, and her chest heaved with exhausted defiance.

“Move.”

The guard shoved her forward, and Yn barely caught herself, stumbling onto the pristine stone pathway. Around her, silk-clad women paused in their embroidery and quiet gossip, eyes narrowing in assessment. Some whispered behind delicate fans. Others looked away, uninterested.

Her heart pounded in her chest, panic rising like bile in her throat. Her arms were aching from the tight grip of the guards, but she refused to show any weakness. She wasn’t going to submit. Not to them. Not to the Emperor. Not to this life.

One of the guards, the one who had been the most vocal in dragging her here, chuckled cruelly. “I can’t wait to see how long it takes for her to turn sweet and obedient. You’ll break, eventually,” he said with a nasty grin, his eyes roaming over her dirtied clothes and disheveled hair.

Yn’s chest tightened, the insult cutting deeper than she expected. Something inside her snapped—her resolve hardened, her pride surging up through the anger burning in her veins.

Before any of the guards could react, Yn swung her fist. It was a wild, desperate motion, one driven by instinct and fury. She aimed for the man’s jaw, hoping for even a hint of satisfaction.

But her aim was off. The force of her punch collided with his face, but the impact wasn’t as satisfying as she’d hoped. Her fist instead struck his nose, the sickening crunch of bone splitting the air. The guard staggered back, his face bleeding, but Yn barely noticed. Her hands throbbed with a sharp, searing pain, and she let out a cry of frustration, clutching at her wrist.

“I told you to stop!” one of the guards shouted, seizing her by the arm. “You’ll pay for that!”

The two others closed in on her, eyes full of fury.

But before they could lay hands on her again, two figures stepped into the room. Lian, with her practiced grace, and Mei, her gaze hardened but filled with a quiet understanding. Lian took one look at the guards, her gaze icy.

“Enough,” she said firmly, voice carrying an authority that immediately made the guards hesitate. She glanced at Yn’s broken hand, then back at the guards with a disappointed sigh. “You’ve done enough. This is not how we handle matters here.”

Mei stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Yn’s bruised wrist. “Let me see,” she said softly, her voice soothing as she began to assess the damage. “You were too rash. You should’ve waited for a better moment.”

Yn gritted her teeth, pain coursing through her, but she didn’t pull away. Mei was always gentle with her, unlike the others. She tried to resist, but the tears threatened to well up in her eyes as her hand was carefully tended to.

Lian crossed her arms, her gaze coolly sweeping over the guards. “If you think a woman’s spirit can be broken with pain, you’re sorely mistaken. If you want obedience, try kindness. If you can manage that, maybe we’ll see how it goes.”

The guards looked between each other, unsure of how to respond to the unexpected reprimand. Lian turned to Yn with a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, her tone softening just a bit. “You need rest. Let the guards handle the rest of their mess.”

Mei gave Yn a sympathetic look, guiding her gently towards the back of the house to tend to her injuries while Lian kept her calm, her presence acting as a shield against the rest of the chaos around them.

Yn’s hand still throbbed, but in the midst of the pain, there was a small, flickering feeling—one that she hadn’t had in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t entirely alone in this.

Yn stood in the center of the bathhouse, the steam swirling around her like a suffocating fog. She felt exposed, her skin raw and dirty from the streets. She had been yanked from her life, torn away from everything she knew, and now she stood here—alone. The thought of being forced into this bath, cleaned like some animal, ignited a bitterness in her chest.

She stood in her old, tattered clothes, a far cry from the lavish silk robes the other concubines wore. Her body was tired, covered in grime and the wear of the harsh life she had fought to survive. The humiliation of this situation hit her hard, like a weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating her resolve.

“Don’t be shy,” Lian’s voice cut through her thoughts. Yn looked up to find the older girl standing at the doorway, her expression kind, but laced with an understanding that Yn couldn’t quite grasp.

Mei was behind her, arms crossed, leaning against the wall with an expression that seemed to hide a great deal beneath her calm exterior. The steward watched from the side, her face unreadable, but there was a certain coldness in her gaze.

Yn remained still, the bitterness building, but Lian stepped closer. “Let us help you. You’re not alone here.”

There was no escape. Yn knew that now. Her only choice was to play along, to endure, at least until she found a way out. The water, warm and inviting, seemed almost like a mockery. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve any of this.

But Lian’s voice softened, “You need this. Let us clean you.”

Yn didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t want their help, but she didn’t want to fight them, either. Slowly, reluctantly, she stepped into the bath, the warm water surrounding her as she lowered herself in. It felt like the water was mocking her, lapping against her skin with the same cold indifference the world had shown her. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her aching muscles, but it did little to ease the tension in her chest.

Lian motioned for the attendants, who poured water over Yn’s head, their hands gentle as they washed away the dirt that clung to her skin. Mei observed from the corner, quiet but watchful, her eyes never straying too far from Yn, as if waiting for her to break.

The scent of soap and oils filled the air, and for a brief moment, Yn was transported back to simpler times. Times when she’d bathed in the quiet comfort of her own home, away from all this. But now, those memories were just that—memories.

“I know it’s hard,” Lian said, her voice gentle as she helped Yn scrub the dirt away. “But you’ll get used to it. We all do.”

Yn didn’t respond, her eyes trained on the water beneath her, unable to meet their gaze. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t want to be here.

Once the bath was finished, Lian helped Yn out of the water, her touch surprisingly gentle as she wrapped a towel around her. The heat of the water had relaxed her body, but her mind was still sharp, still defiant. She hadn’t let them break her, not yet.

“You should get dressed,” Lian said, offering her a robe made of soft, pale silk that contrasted sharply with the dirty, torn clothes she had been wearing.

Yn hesitated, glancing down at the fine fabric. She didn’t want to wear this. She didn’t want to be treated like this. But Lian’s steady gaze held hers, and with a resigned sigh, Yn slipped into the robe. It was soft, luxurious even, but it felt wrong on her body. She didn’t deserve this. She was just another girl in this palace, another face in a sea of beautiful, obedient women.

Lian smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’ll be alright. We’re all in this together.”

Yn didn’t speak, just nodded quietly. She didn’t trust Lian’s words, not yet. But for now, she would play along. For now, she will survive. She had no other choice.

The steward watched silently, her eyes lingering on Yn for a moment longer before he turned to Lian and Mei. “Get her settled in,” she said, her tone flat.

Lian nodded and motioned for Yn to follow her. As they left the bathhouse, the scent of oils and soaps clung to Yn, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had lost more than just her freedom.

But as they walked down the hall, she kept her head high, unwilling to let anyone see the tears that threatened to break free. She would endure this, but she wouldn’t let it break her.

Not yet.

Lian led Yn through the quiet halls of the concubine quarters, the soft sound of their footsteps echoing off the polished floors. The other girls—Mei and a few others—followed behind them in silence, casting glances at Yn every so often. Despite the warm gestures and kind words, Yn could feel their eyes on her, like they were trying to gauge whether she would fit in with them, or whether she would break under the pressure of palace life.

Finally, Lian stopped in front of a simple wooden door, its frame carved with intricate patterns, though it lacked the ornate grandeur of other rooms in the palace. She opened it with a soft click and motioned for Yn to enter.

"This is your room," Lian said, her voice soft but warm, like she was offering something precious. "It’s simple, but it’s yours for as long as you’re here. You can decorate it as you like, and it will be a place of your own."

Yn stepped inside, her gaze immediately scanning the room. It was larger than any space she had ever had for herself, yet it felt almost too empty. A bed with white silks, a small table near the window, and a wardrobe on one side. In the corner, a display shelf for any gifts or tokens given to her—perhaps by the Emperor, perhaps by other guests.

But none of it mattered. It was just a gilded cage.

Her eyes flicked to the small window near the bed, where the moonlight leaked through the curtains, casting a pale glow on the room. She felt the weight of it—this was not freedom. This was confinement dressed in silk.

Her fingers lightly traced the wood of the table as her mind worked, already scheming and planning. She knew this palace better than most, and she had spent enough time observing the guards, the routines of the servants, and the flow of life here to start putting the pieces together.

Lian and Mei stood by the door, watching her, though they said nothing for the moment. There was a tension in the air—an understanding between them that Yn wouldn’t be here long if she had her way. But for now, they would let her have her space.

"It's... not as grand as some of the other rooms," Lian said, as if trying to reassure her. "But it’s comfortable, and the Emperor will likely send gifts for you in time."

Yn's eyes flicked toward the shelf where such gifts would be placed. Jewelry, perhaps, or other trinkets. Things she didn’t want. Things she couldn’t care less for. She had no use for any of it, not while she was stuck in this gilded cage.

“Thank you,” Yn said quietly, her voice low but polite enough to mask the bitterness curling in her chest. She made a point not to look at Lian or the others, though she could feel their eyes still on her, watching her every move.

"You should rest," Mei said after a long silence, her voice soft. "Tomorrow will be a busy day, getting to know everyone and the routines here."

Yn didn’t respond. She wasn’t tired. Not yet. But she knew there was little use in resisting for now. She had to wait for the right moment.

“I will,” Yn finally said, taking a deep breath and glancing around the room again. Her gaze lingered on the small window. If she could find a way out, she would.

Lian stepped forward and gently set a folded robe on the bed. "You’ll need this for tomorrow. Something simple for when you meet with the others. The Emperor prefers it when we look... presentable."

Yn picked up the robe, eyeing it for a moment before tossing it aside carelessly. "I don’t need it," she muttered under her breath.

Lian didn't seem to take offense. She just nodded, a soft understanding in her eyes. "It’s your choice, but the Emperor will expect certain things from you. You’ll learn what they are soon enough."

Yn nodded without speaking, already mentally mapping out her next move. She’d have to be clever, patient, wait for the guards to grow lax in their vigilance. The layout of the palace was already ingrained in her memory, and she knew where the hidden passages and servant tunnels were. She could slip out unnoticed. It wasn’t a matter of if—it was a matter of when.

Mei and Lian lingered for a moment, both silently observing Yn, before Mei spoke, her voice calm. “We’ll leave you for now. But if you need anything... anything at all, let us know.”

Yn gave a small, almost imperceptible nod as they exited, the door clicking shut behind them. The room was silent now, save for the faint hum of the palace at night.

She moved to the window again, pressing her palm to the cool glass, her eyes scanning the courtyard below. Beyond the walls of the palace, there was freedom, and one day, she would reach it. She would escape.

Her fingers curled into a fist, the determination within her solidifying. She had been brought here against her will, but she would not let this be the end of her story. Not now. Not ever.

She turned away from the window, her eyes flicking over the room one last time, before she sank down onto the bed. Tomorrow, she will play the part. But tonight—tonight she would dream of escape.

Yn sat on the edge of the pristine silk-covered bed, her damp hair falling in loose strands around her face. The soft fabric of the robe Lian had given her felt foreign against her skin, far too delicate compared to the worn clothes she’d lived in before. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the curtains as a cool breeze slipped through the slightly ajar window.

Her gaze drifted to that window, moonlight pooling on the floor beneath it. It was small, but not impossible. If she could hoist herself up and slip through, she might land quietly in the courtyard below. The guards rotated shifts around midnight—she’d seen it often enough when sneaking near the palace walls for scraps. If she timed it right, she could be gone before anyone even noticed she was missing.

But the walls. The palace walls were tall and smooth, built to keep people like her out… or in. Her brows furrowed as she leaned back, palms pressing into the plush bedding. Maybe if she could slip into the servant tunnels? They ran like veins through the palace, and the kitchen staff were up before dawn. If she could blend in, steal some plain clothes—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft creak from the hallway. Instinctively, her body tensed, ready to fight, to run. But the sound faded, leaving only the weight of silence behind.

With a frustrated sigh, Yn dragged her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She hated this. The softness. The stillness. It wasn’t hers. She belonged out there, under the stars, with dirt under her nails and freedom in her lungs—not locked away like a doll on display.

Her eyes flicked to the empty shelf meant for gifts. The thought made her stomach turn. She didn’t want silks or jewels. She wanted the streets, the thrill of running barefoot down alleys, the warmth of the sun on her face as she bartered for fruit at the market.

She glanced at the door. Locked, of course. They weren’t stupid.

Her head tipped back against the carved headboard, and she closed her eyes, mind still racing with plans. The window. The tunnels. The guard rotations. There had to be a way.

The moon climbed higher, casting pale light across her face as exhaustion finally began to creep in. Her thoughts slowed, tangled with dreams of scaling walls and slipping past watchful eyes.

Tomorrow. She’d find a way tomorrow.

Sleep claimed her quietly, the last thing on her mind not fear, but defiance.

The morning sun filtered through the paper screens, casting soft golden patterns across the floor. Yn stirred awake, momentarily disoriented by the softness beneath her. The bed. The silk. The scent of jasmine lingering in the air. Reality crashed down like a wave, and her muscles tensed as she sat up, heart pounding.

Still here.

Before she could plan her next move, a knock sounded at the door, sharp and precise.

"Lady Yn," Lian’s voice called from the other side. "It’s time to rise. We have much to do today."

The door slid open before Yn could answer, and Lian, ever poised and graceful, stepped inside, followed by Mei, who offered a gentler smile. Both were dressed impeccably in pale, flowing robes, their hair twisted into intricate buns adorned with delicate pins.

Yn, by contrast, still wore the robe they’d forced on her the night before. Wrinkled now, slightly askew, but no less suffocating.

"I’m not interested," Yn muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Go play palace doll without me."

Lian’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes sharpened. "You’ll find that disinterest is a luxury you can’t afford here."

Mei stepped forward, her tone softer. "We’re not your enemies, Yn. If you don’t learn the rules, you'll suffer for it. We’ve seen it happen."

Yn met her gaze, reading the sincerity there. Mei looked tired, older than her youthful face should allow, like someone who’d long since accepted her cage but still pitied the new birds thrown into it.

With a reluctant sigh, Yn stood. "Fine. Show me the circus."

The day began in the dressing hall. Rows of concubines, some chatting quietly, others silently enduring the hands of servants as they were preened and polished like ornaments. Lian led Yn to a quieter corner, where a maid waited with brushes and fabrics.

"You’ll be expected to look presentable at all times," Lian explained, arms crossed as she observed the maid combing through Yn's hair. "Even if the Emperor doesn’t call for you, palace officials, visiting nobles—they all watch. A single misstep can cost you everything."

Yn snorted. "Good. Maybe if I mess up enough, they’ll throw me out."

Mei winced. "It’s not exile you’ll face if you offend the wrong person."

The weight of that warning settled like a stone in Yn’s stomach.

After dressing—simple robes, thankfully, nothing too elaborate for a first day—they moved to the outer gardens. Other concubines strolled along stone paths, laughing behind delicate fans, their faces masks of practiced ease. Servants flitted about, tending to blooms and fetching refreshments.

Lian gestured subtly as they walked. "Morning hours are for leisure. Reading, embroidery, music—anything that shows refinement. If you can’t sing, learn. If you can’t play the qin, pretend you’re trying."

Yn eyed a group of women giggling under a willow tree. "And if I’d rather climb that tree?"

Mei actually laughed, earning a sharp look from Lian. "Then you’ll be gossip fodder for weeks. And you’ll stand out. Which is dangerous."

The weight of their words pressed down harder with each passing minute. Meals were formal, conversation measured. Etiquette lessons filled the afternoon—how to bow, how to walk, how to smile without baring teeth.

The soft patter of footsteps faded as Lian and Mei left Yn’s room, their gentle reminders of "Stay out of trouble" and "Don’t wander too far" lingering in the air.

With a quiet huff, she stood, slipping into the simple shoes left by the door. The palace stretched far beyond the concubine quarters, and boredom was a dangerous motivator. If they were going to keep her here, she might as well learn its weaknesses.

The palace was alive with movement, a world within a world. Yn walked slowly through its winding corridors, her bare feet brushing against the cool stone. The scent of incense and fresh jasmine drifted through the air, mixing with the faint aroma of ink and parchment from the nearby study halls.

She had been left alone for the rest of the day—an unusual mercy. Or perhaps an oversight. Either way, she intended to make use of it.

Her eyes flickered over the passing figures, each one a piece of the empire’s grand design.

A group of servants hurried past, carrying trays of steaming food and silken fabrics, their eyes kept low, their movements practiced and precise. She noticed how they barely spoke, only communicating in glances and nods. Their silence was not born from discipline, but from fear. Mistakes in the palace were costly.

Not far from them, a young boy, no older than six, clung to his nurse’s robes. A noble’s child, judging by the embroidered silk of his tunic. His round face was scrunched in frustration, small hands tugging at the woman’s sleeve.

"I don’t want to study!" he whined.

"Hush, young master," the nurse scolded, casting a nervous glance at the guards nearby. "Your father will hear of this."

Yn watched as the boy sulked but followed, disappearing behind a carved wooden screen. A child of power—one already learning that in this palace, obedience meant survival.

She turned a corner and nearly walked into a pair of diplomats, their conversation sharp and clipped. They wore the colors of rival regions, their voices laced with careful politeness.

"The Emperor’s patience is not infinite," one murmured.

"Neither is his rule," the other countered, though more softly.

Yn kept walking, pretending not to hear. Politics were not her concern. Escape was.

Ahead, a line of imperial guards stood at attention, their polished armor gleaming in the morning light. They were like statues, barely breathing, eyes forward, unreadable. She had fought against these men only days ago—biting, kicking, drawing blood. Now they barely acknowledged her presence.

Except for one.

A guard slightly older than the rest exhaled sharply when he saw her, as if already exhausted. His grip on his spear tightened.

She gave him a slow, mocking smile. Yes, poor man, I am still here.

Beyond the guards, the world opened up into a sprawling courtyard. Flowers bloomed in careful, deliberate patterns, a beauty too precise to be natural. Stone paths wove between koi ponds and carved gazebos, a paradise designed for those who would never leave.

Like me, she thought bitterly.

And yet, even within this gilded prison, there were cracks in the design. Routes the architects had not accounted for. Shadows where the watchful eyes of the palace did not linger.

Yn strolled forward, fingers brushing the soft petals of a peony, gaze flickering towards the high walls beyond.

She was learning. Observing.

Soon, she would find her way out.

The hallways were eerily empty. Most concubines were busy with their scheduled activities—embroidering flowers they'd never wear, practicing music for ears that rarely listened. Servants flitted by, their gazes sliding off her like she was just another ornament.

Yn moved quietly, brushing past the polished wooden pillars and delicate silk curtains that separated one lavish section from the next. Her eyes darted, not for beauty but for opportunity.

A cracked window. A loose panel. A hallway too dimly lit for prying eyes.

There has to be a way out.

But her thoughts were interrupted by a soft chattering sound—tiny, insistent meows.

Curious, Yn followed the noise, slipping past a side entrance that led to one of the quieter palace gardens. It was less manicured than the grand courtyards, more wild and forgotten. That explained the strays.

Three cats lounged under the shade of a crooked plum tree. One, a scruffy ginger with torn ears, stretched lazily. Another, sleek and black, watched her warily from a distance. But the third—a small gray tabby with bright, mischievous eyes—trotted right up to her, tail high.

Yn knelt, hand outstretched. "Well, aren’t you brave?"

The tabby sniffed her fingers before nudging its head against her palm, purring loudly.

A flash of green caught her eye. Close to the edge of the garden, half-hidden among the weeds, catnip grew wild and untamed. She grinned.

"Of course. That’s why you're so friendly."

Yn plucked a few sprigs and rubbed them between her fingers, letting the scent bloom. Within moments, the ginger stray perked up, sauntering over with a curious rumble. Even the black cat crept closer, cautious but intrigued.

Before long, she was surrounded. Cats flopped beside her, rolling and purring, content under her gentle touch.

For the first time since being dragged into this gilded prison, Yn felt something other than anger or exhaustion.

Peace.

Soft fur under her fingers. The sun warming her back. No guards. No silk-clad concubines whispering behind fans. Just her and these little survivors, thriving in the cracks of the palace's perfection.

A tabby paw batted at her sleeve, and she laughed quietly.

"Guess we’re all strays here, huh?"

But as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the ground, reality crept back in. She couldn’t stay here forever.

With a reluctant sigh, Yn stood, brushing dust from her robe. The cats blinked up at her, content and drowsy.

"Don't get too comfortable," she murmured, gaze drifting toward the high walls in the distance. "Next time, I’m not coming back."

And with that, she slipped away, the scent of catnip still clinging to her fingertips.

The sun hung lazily in the sky as Yn wandered further than she should have. The palace grounds were vast, and after her morning spent with the strays, she’d pocketed a few sprigs of catnip—just in case. Not like she had much else to entertain herself with.

The courtyard near the emperor’s private quarters was quieter than the rest. Too quiet. It should’ve been her first warning.

Her second came when the stray she'd been trailing—a scrawny thing with patchy fur—bolted like its tail was on fire.

Yn barely had time to register the low rumble vibrating through the air before a flash of white and black fur cut across her path.

A tiger.

Not just any tiger—Huāng Xie, the emperor’s infamous beast.

For a moment, time froze. The tiger, muscles coiled, stood at the top of the stone steps leading to the courtyard. Its golden eyes locked onto her.

Her foot caught on an uneven tile, and she went down hard, palms scraping against the ground.

The catnip.

The crushed leaves tumbled from her pocket, releasing their sharp, minty scent into the air.

The palace guards stationed nearby froze, hands flying to their weapons. One servant shrieked and darted behind a pillar.

"She's dead," someone whispered.

Even the concubines watching from the shaded walkway stood wide-eyed, fans forgotten in their trembling hands.

Yn didn’t move. Heart pounding in her ears, she slowly lifted her gaze to the tiger, now prowling toward her, each step deliberate and soundless.

Well, she thought grimly, at least it won’t be boredom that kills me.

Huāng Xie paused a breath away from her sprawled form, nose twitching.

Then, to everyone’s horror, the massive predator leaned down—

—and purred.

Deep, rumbling, content. Like thunder softened by silk.

The tiger’s wide head bumped against her shoulder, almost knocking her flat again. Yn barely had time to blink before it flopped down beside her, tail flicking lazily.

It wanted belly rubs.

The silence was deafening.

From the balcony above, Zhéyàn stood, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp with disbelief—and, if one looked closely enough, amusement.

One of the guards finally found his voice. "Is… is it broken?"

Another guard hissed, "Shut up! Do you want it to remember it's a tiger?!"

Yn, thoroughly stunned, stared at the giant feline now rolling half onto its back, head resting comfortably on her lap. The crushed catnip lay scattered around her like an offering.

"You're not very good at being a tiger, you know," she muttered, hesitantly scratching behind its ears.

Huāng Xie purred louder, tail thumping against the stone.

Zhéyàn, still watching from above, chuckled under his breath. Interesting.

He turned to the steward beside him, whose face had gone pale.

The emperor ordered, lips curling into a lazy smile. "I’d like to meet the woman who tamed my tiger."

Yn, oblivious to the new attention, sighed and pushed at Huāng Xie’s massive head.

"Get off me, you overgrown house cat. I'm trying to escape here."

Some of his victims have seen it, but you’re the first person he intended to see it. The decision was quiet, perhaps a little impulsive. A simple exchange of “What are you, Sasha?” and “I don’t know. Wanna see?” had you both going to your bedroom and locking the door.

For the first time in his life, his heart pounded as he shed his clothes. He almost didn’t want you to turn around and look. It might be better if you only knew the carefully curated version of him, the handsome appearance he painstakingly crafted for the easiest social life. Even though you already knew he wasn’t human and pretended it didn’t matter, what if you saw him now and knew with absolute certainty that you didn’t want to look at him ever again? He would have to swallow you whole. He wasn’t sure if he could do it.

Regardless he said, “turn around.”

He showed you the unvarnished form that he had inherited from his mother. To be frank: It’s a predator’s body. Worse that that, it’s a monster’s. There are features and junctures of him so uncanny it must hurt the logical mind to observe them. If you were ever looking for the perfect rebuttal to the existence of a loving God, look no further than his cruel mouth.

He crept onto you bed looking like this, towering over you, your bed-frame screaming to protest the weight. He’d have to cut you off at the source, if you were to scream. And though he could smell the fear wafting from your skin, could practically feel the constricting blood vessels and tightening muscles in you, you still asked him, “Hey, is it more comfortable? Do you prefer being like this?”

Honestly? He isn’t sure there’s a body that’s comfortable and natural to him anymore. He’s so used to a human state that anything else feels awkward, even when it’s easier to shift to. As you took his massive claws into your hands and examined them with gentle curiosity, though, he was struck by the warmth of you. It was a long time since anyone had really touched him. It might’ve been even longer for you, loner that you are. Which meant you were the only person who could understand the way he felt in that moment.

He flopped over next to you, letting out an embarrassing dog-like whine, but you just laughed sweetly, and shifted pillows around to accommodate his bigger size. His feet and tail still dangled awkwardly off the bed. “You can relax in here,” you said. “You’re always welcome, since you’re my friend.”

You rambled about your classes and professors until all the adrenaline had left your system. He didn’t say much in response, but you didn’t mind. After a while, you could almost meet his preternatural gaze. You even dozed off like this, with a monster beside you, you utter weirdo. He put his head closer to your chest and felt your sleeping breaths for hours, thinking that your throat would be butter-soft under his teeth.

Sasha knows very little about what he really wants. He’s not sure if he’ll stay in his major, or in school, or even in human society. He knows for certain, though, that he wants more time to study you. He wants just your quiet voice and humble body heat and the understanding that, whatever he is, it isn’t going to chase you away.

So you two keep doing this. Every few days he’ll skulk over to where you are and make room for himself, and the two of you will talk for hours. Sometimes he shifts. He doesn’t always want to, but you get more comfortable with him that way. You...seem more keen to pet him when he looks and acts like an animal, and he wants you to touch him so bad he’s worried he’ll start asking for it. Could he ever live it down, if he started asking to be coddled? No. So he wags his tail and butts his head against you like that isn’t it’s own special brand of pathetic.

It’s not like you’re one to judge, though. You’re just so happy to have a friend that comes to hang out with you. You’ve never had very many of those, but of course Sasha knows he’s extra special. There’s much he’s learned about the world from his strange perspective, and you’re always excited to listen to his stories.

You do understand that he needs to eat a lot. You see him clear out four bacon cheeseburgers as a snack once, and he cracks jokes about how breakfast was red bull and adderall, but you know that it’s just a part of his biology that works against him. So you go out of your way to cook more meat, and give him bigger portions than anyone else, ignoring the way your blatant favoritism must look to the other roommates and occasional visitors. He doesn’t bother explaining that your idea of a big meal is like his idea of an appetizer, and he never will.

He doesn’t talk about the people he eats, either. He’s starting to think you don’t realize he does that.

(If you really don’t know, if this is the way you treat him when you don’t know, there’s no fucking way he can tell you.)

As for you, you talk about your courses and your classmates. From the way you talk around it, he’s mostly figured out the sad shape of your childhood and he decides that’s why you’re so weird and naive.

Mostly, you tell him about your hobbies, and your taste in TV shows. That’s when something in you is unlocked, revealing you to be more witty and giggly than your initial impression. It’s gratifying to know most other people don’t discover that side of you, like being the only prospector who knows where gold is. You tell him about everything you used to watch and play with your best friend, back when she had time for you. He’s a little confused by just how fervently you love things, how you start to care one day and then never, ever stop.

He never did it before, but now the two of you watch garbage TV together. (You tried to invite your best friend to join you, but to Sasha’s satisfaction, she gave you that cringing sort of smile and told you she didn’t have time.) Every Friday comes a new episode of Crater County, this schlocky supernatural police procedural, so every Thursday night you ask him to watch it with you. He’s a busy man, of course, but he’ll fit it into his schedule since he knows you so look forward to it.

This Thursday you must have forgot.

Somehow, in the early morning on Friday, you slip away without Sasha noticing. He wakes up to the honks of geese and distant cars, and the ever-present hum of electricity. As he thinks of pestering you to make ham and eggs, just to watch you get annoyed, he notices the conspicuous lack of your heartbeat.

He knows better than to doubt his hearing. But he still goes into your room across the hall to find the bed unmade and unoccupied. He almost goes to check your pillow for warmth, only stopping when he realizes it’s...stupid, to do that. He stays in the doorway for a long moment, overly-conscious of your scent. Then he goes to pace in the empty kitchen.

It hadn’t occurred to you to say goodbye to him, or leave him a portion of breakfast as you usually do, so you must have been in a hurry. Distantly, he remembers your fast food job. You probably got called to cover for someone at the last minute. Even so, shouldn’t you have said something to him? So that he wouldn’t wonder? Because he’s—

—well, you called him your friend.

It bothers him the more he thinks about it, while he showers and gets coffee and goes to class. The two of you haven’t talked since Monday and it feels weird. You always tell him when you’re going out, so what happened? Where can he even find you?

Not that he would need to find you. Sasha isn’t clingy. Clingy is his ex making alt account after alt account to pester him on instagram with stupid questions like, “are you seriously trying to ghost me you asshole?” And Sasha isn’t doing that. He hasn’t even texted you yet, because you haven’t texted him, and you always text first. If you don’t go through with the trouble of asking for him, he absolutely will not bother coming.

You haven’t sent so much as a “hey!” in the last seventeen times that he’s checked, so. Guess you guys aren’t hanging out. Whatever. It’s not like he doesn’t have stuff to do. He’s behind on several classes, a habitual skipper, and there are four other people begging him to come out tonight. He hasn’t hunted in a while so he should probably do that too.

He should go and talk to other humans, re-acquire their speech patterns and body language. He should catch himself when he makes gestures you would make, stop himself from making them. That’s why he goes to lunch with a friend group he met last month, and fits in with them seamlessly—or, almost seamlessly. No one can say he isn’t a good talker, slick as oil and quick with comebacks, but he’s a little more sensitive than usual today. While he’s in the middle of charming them he slips up and says something you would say.

“Isn’t that a Crater County reference you just made?” One girl says to him, stopping the conversation cold. “I thought you hated nerdy stuff like that.”

Sasha laughs shortly. “What? Says who?”

“Says you. You laughed at someone’s Supernatural tattoo at the party, remember?”

“It was a fucking horrendous tattoo. And I don’t like Crater Country or whatever, either, I just know some lines because my,” his throat feels like a desert, but he continues, “my roommate is obsessed with that shit.”

They brush over that thought soon enough, shifting focus to upcoming concerts, but Sasha can’t get comfortable again. He feels like he forgot how eyes work, and his are going to slip and turn reptilian in the middle of this well-populated restaurant. He’s scared his hands are going to morph into paws. In the end, he excuses himself before he can finish his meal.

Since he’s still quite hungry, Sasha decides he’ll drop by the butcher and get a few pounds of beef chuck to tide him over until dark. He’ll go to that fancy shop with all the grass-fed cruelty-free organic stuff, because he’s passionate about the well-fare of livestock, and definitely not because it’s just down the street from your job.

But since he’s there, anyway, he’ll pass by and peek through the windows to see what’s happening there.

Your restaurant is packed. A sports team, or special event or something, has filled every table in sight, and more people queue up at the register. You’re boxing fries and passing them over to waiting customers’ trays. Even though you’ve got mountains of food to work through, you’re smiling. It takes only a few seconds to find out why, following the arc of your eye up to a man in the same uniform as you.

The guy is tall and average-looking, and he keeps leaning toward you to talk like he doesn’t know how to speak loudly even though he works in a goddamn kitchen. Sasha doesn’t know him by face, or by word of mouth, since you’ve never told him about a co-worker that can make you giggle so much.

Why hadn’t you told Sasha about the funniest man of the century, huh?

More importantly, why hadn’t you noticed the way this asshole was looking at you? Staring so intently, exaggerating his expressions, mirroring you. All the same tricks Sasha has used before but with none of the grace, and yet somehow you liked it from this guy when Sasha had seemed scary to you.

He just can’t understand. That wouldn’t be such a problem if he hadn’t believed that he did understand you, and the way your mind worked. You had said Sasha was your friend and you had sat in the truth with him, relieved to see him for what he truly was, and you had been asking after his health and his happiness, wasting nights with him, cooking for him, cuddling up with him, and now here you were forgetting about his existence with another friend that he didn’t know about.

Sasha has been cheated on by a partner in the past. They left him one night and came back in the wee hours smelling like a fresh shower, with traces of someone else’s odor still clinging to them. It hadn’t felt like anything, to know that they were sneaking behind his back. Not a betrayal, no sting or ache in the heart he supposedly had. He broke up with them a week after, and that, like all his other breakups, was simply annoying. Sasha had always felt like he wasn’t with any of the people he was with. He was watching them, and touching them, and living among them, but there was some kind of invisible barrier between him and all the world. So when they broke a connection, well, what was there to even break? How could he care?

And why did being cheated on come to mind when he saw you happy with some other guy?

Sasha would later find out that you pulled a twelve hour shift that day, and, pushover that you were, you didn’t take a break long enough to check your phone. But he doesn’t stay to watch you, he really couldn’t. A pit had formed in his stomach, some void, some black hole that he had to attend to.

He leaves you there in your job and your apparent fun, none the wiser, and goes to the butcher. He gets himself a rack of ribs, and a few pounds of steak, and a heart just because the shop had one on hand and they were happy to serve a customer with such deep pockets as him. He gets a couple of cheeseburgers for the ride home and finishes them in a few bites.

As soon as he knows your other roommates aren’t home, he tears into the paper packaging of the prepared meats and gorges himself over the kitchen sink, soiling his shirt with myoglobin. It all tastes like ash, disappearing into him the way so many things do. When he’s done, when every last shred of flesh and sliver of bone has been swallowed, his stomach growls.

He’s always been this empty. Maybe that was the thing you saw that made you so afraid upon first meeting him—the bottomless trench that he actually was.

You said he was your friend. You knew what he was and didn’t back away. But you have so little else in your life. If you gained anything more, real friends, real family, a lover, wouldn’t someone as hollow and alien as Sasha be easily discarded?

There’s nothing for it. He has to go and hunt now.

Your co-worker is pitifully easy to discover. By checking the likes on your posts, he finds the creep has been hounding you for three weeks now. His unmitigated social media addiction leaves the entirety of his existence splatter across the internet. Sasha learns and forgets his name. He knows exactly what place he’ll be at tonight, with whom, for how long. He shifts to look exactly like you, heads out and stops at the right street corner with a bulky gym bag, waiting.

It’s so easy. Sasha can play You, but this guy hardly deserves all that effort. It’s enough to show up magically with your face, even if your clothes and piercings seem out of place. All Sasha has to do is bat lashes and flash a smile that he has already memorized—your stupid sincere grin that had made you, like the sun, difficult to look at directly—and this idiot thinks the person in front of him is really you, out on the same night by coincidence. He’s happy to see you, and happier still that you want to go somewhere together. He lets Sasha take him by the hand, convinced that the two of you are going out for drinks through innocuously empty backstreets. It doesn’t strike him as weird that you’re so energetic and flirty all of a sudden. Asshole.

He at least has the decency to carry the bag, no doubt hoping to come off as a gentleman.

“Why a duffel bag, anyway?” He marvels.

“To change clothes before I go home, silly,” Sasha tells him, leading him further into the night.

It turns out the co-worker is deeply uncomfortable with silence. He cracks jokes that aren’t funny, to which Sasha politely chuckles for what is only ten minutes but feels like an hour.

“When you kept turning me down,” he says, predictably, “I was worried you had a boyfriend or something.”

“Why would I not tell you if I had a boyfriend?” Sasha croons in your voice, fighting with all his will-power to not crush your co-worker’s hand. They’re finally on a quiet street, between two condemned houses, where there are no cameras and no pedestrians.

“Haha, I don’t know. You’re like, really private. That roommate you talk about all the time? The one going to the same school? I honestly feel like I know more about her than I know about you.”

“You mean, ‘him’? Sasha?” Sasha blinks owlishly with your eyes, his heart melting a little when he imagines you gushing about him to other people.

The guy laughs nervously. “No, I mean Maya. Is Sasha another roommate? Have you mentioned her before?”

Really. Maya. That “best friend” who basically pretends you don’t exist, who takes up valuable real estate in your mind when some people who have spent months getting to know you don’t even get a text.

Sasha gives up on looking friendly.

Your co-worker has finally sensed something is off, wincing as he tugs his hand out of Sasha’s vice-grip. Stretching out his fingers, he asks, “Hey, how much farther ‘til we get there? I swear we’ve passed like, three bars already...”

He doesn’t get to say more because Sasha lets out his teeth and goes for the throat.

It must be said that a warm meal always beats a cold one, but other that that it’s a shitty fare, gristly and lacking in flavor. This guy’s blood, fresh from the veins, is flat and forgettable. Even the marrow of his bones disappoints. At least he didn’t put up a fight...though maybe some enrichment could have saved this boring dinner.

Sasha feels more bloated than full when it’s all over. He wipes down and changes into fresh clothes, stuffing all the bloody garments into the duffel bag. He still feels kinda gross, and considers a long, hot shower while picking muscle fibers from between his teeth.

Are you going to worry about your co-worker? Are you going to miss him? Will you cry if they identify his blood on clothes found in the dump? Will you even tell Sasha why you’re crying?

Sasha snaps out of his deep thoughts when his phone buzzes. The text from you reads:

hey! i forgot to ask, are you on for crater county tonight?

What the fuck. Renewed frustration flushes through his system. What is he, your backup plan? He has a life—actually, many more lives than you! You should know better than to screw around with his time. He shouldn’t even dignify your bullshit with a response, but he does anyway—

At a party

And your answer is,

oh ok

we’ll watch it some other time

have fun!

…

Stay safe ok! Call me if you need something

It’s such a low blow he has to wonder if you’re doing it on purpose: you’re telling him all the same things he’s heard you tell Maya when she blows you off. He can hear the disappointment and embarrassment in your voice, the way you assure her of your eternal affection and concern while she practically dismisses you. Once he’s imagining your face, then, all he wants in the world is to look at it.

He’s a good runner. He’s barely out of breath when he arrives home, tossing aside his sweaty hoodie and kicking off his shoes while he quietly closes the door behind him. The dishwasher is running. He can just make out the low moan of the central air system, and one lazy heart thumping in the living room.

For a moment you don’t notice that Sasha is there. He gets to watch you quietly. You’re languishing on the couch in your bedclothes, staring blankly at the No Signal screen on the TV with a bowl of popcorn untouched on the coffee table. It surprises him. He hasn’t seen you with an expression this dull in a while.

But it disappears in an instant.

“Sasha!” You bolt upright, your face brightening like the sky at dawn when you find him standing in the doorway. “Did the party end already?”

He doesn’t know what to say.

You glance back at the TV. “Um, I swear I wasn’t going to watch without you! I was just…”

“Were you waiting for me?” He asks.

Your expression flickers, betraying the anxiety in your eyes before you have the chance to look away. Why did he even bother to ask? You’re here for him, like a puppy waiting for their owner, and suddenly he’s flushed and queasy—no, it’s not sickness that he feels, it’s butterflies. He’s so delighted he feels dumb, all of his frustration and embarrassing angst vanishing in an instant because all he can think of is how sweet you are.

“Ah,” he laughs dryly. “I’m screwed.”

Before you even know to cry out, he’s thrown himself at you, arms coiling around your waist. The two of you fall back on the couch.

When you get your bearings, you scold him. “Sasha, don’t just do that! You scared me!”

He mumbles, “I had a bad day.”

“...you did?” Your left hand cups his head, almost protectively, and your right strokes his back. “What happened? You’re not hurt, right? Are you hungry? I have some stuff in the fridge—”

“Can we just stay like this?” He asks.

“U-um. Well...” You must be thinking of your other roommates, who could walk in on this scene and “misunderstand” the relationship you have with him. You don’t want to cause weird rumors or tension. But he wants you so much he can’t pretend to be above it anymore. He squeezes you just a little bit, betraying his own desperation, so you say tenderly, “Of course we can.”

It’s scary to be honest. Sasha considers it contrary to his nature. However, he has never in his life avoided adapting or transforming to get what he wants. If he has to bare himself again to endear himself to you, he’ll do it.

“You’re the best friend I have,” he admits, “and I didn’t see you all day, and I missed you.”

Your heart quickens. “Sasha…”

“I know I’m being clingy. I just can’t help it. Say you missed me too. Say I matter to you.”

“I did miss you,” you murmur, your smile bleeding into your voice. You pull him closer. “It feels wrong when we don’t talk all day. And I worry about you, you know. I never see you make a proper meal.”

“I like it better when you make it. So keep cooking for me. Please.”

“I was going to do that anyway,” you say.

His whole body thrums with satisfaction. You care about him so much he can feel it all the way through. He’s soaking up your warmth and savoring your smell, face pressed into your neck. Twisting his hands into your shirt, he finds that he resents your clothes. He even resents your flesh and bones for barring direct access to your heart. Right now, though, he’s almost content with a body in his grasp, a pulse fluttering under his lips.