Damara appears so much older than nineteen in human years, her forehead creased and her eyes focused. This image of her is a hardened shell of the girl you met before, so much so that she feels like a complete stranger. It’s not enough to deter you from trying to figure her out from a distance, stuck in admiration of how an individual could play two roles at once so well. You know how to craft facades, and something fascinates you in knowing now that she does, too. She wore the mask as if it were her own skin, as if she could believe it was a part of her, and maybe it was, once.

There’s something artistic in how she stands, back arched in a slight lean that makes you wonder if she experiences gravity the same as everyone else. You want to know how she learned to carry herself with such certainty. You want to get close enough to let her teach you. You know you can’t stand here and wonder from afar forever, but at the same time, there is something about her that terrifies you into staying where you are. Regardless, some part of you makes the executive decision to turn around and quietly walk the other direction, trying to ignore the distinct taste of regret in your mouth.

Until it disappears altogether.

“Watch much? Is hobby, human?”

You turn back to face her, the sudden intensity of her gaze on you making your skin crawl in a way that, God forbid, you almost enjoy.

“Sometimes. It’s the family business, and somebody’s gotta keep it alive even in death, right?”

She puffs out smoke slowly, watching you closely, and you know better than to break eye contact, even with your face warming up like it is now. She says something in her native tongue, something that sounds all too much like bad Japanese, and you just nod along and shrug. Your response garners an amused snort, and when she smiles, so do you.

In that moment, you get a glimpse of what’s inside that hardened shell: something different, something you feel the need to discover.