Her first thought is, ‘oh, she’s beautiful,’ and that stays with her even as the gleam of the knife catches her eye. It looks like the exact make of one of her kitchen knives, the one that she uses to slice meat away from bone. As the woman strides forward, the crowd parting for her like the Red Sea, Ariadne can only brace herself for the impact. Faintly, she wonders who this woman is, the person who can force dream-makers to their knees. She closes her eyes.

Pain bursts through her ribs. Her knees shudder underneath her, pitching her forward even as the hands on her arms stop her from struggling. Her sides are pulsing with hot, wet pain and her breath is coming out in gasps. When she manages to open her eyes again, her forehead is resting against someone’s shoulder. Cobb is nowhere to be seen, swallowed whole by the crowd.

Cold hands grasp her cheeks and force her to raise her head. The woman’s face swims into view, mere inches away from her own. Sharp brown eyes take her in, undoubtedly cataloging her clammy skin, pupils dilated from pain, pulse jackrabbiting in her throat.

“Why did he bring you here, I wonder,” she says, her tone flat. Her breath smells like lavender and Ariadne thinks she’s starting to lose it.

One hand takes hold of her chin. “If I had the time,” she says, “I’d take you apart and find out for myself.” Fingernails dig into her skin and she can feel the blood rising to the surface.

“A pity,” the woman says. She smiles, eyes flat and sharp teeth hidden behind her painted lips. “He’ll be waking up soon, so I’d better send you back to him.” With a sharp motion, the blade is pulled out of her chest and before the scream can make it out of her throat, it’s plunged back in again. This time, it finds its mark.

She wakes up to harsh concrete and the remainder of a piercing cry tumbling out of her mouth. She folds over, barely resisting the urge to pull her knees up to her chest in self-defense. Next to her, a man that isn’t Cobb is saying something but the white noise in her ears is drowning him out.

Her chest is heaving and her hands are clasped around her own upper arms, nails digging into the meat. She counts her breaths until her body feels like her own again, and she needs to know who that woman is. She can still feel her hand on her chin, her breath across her face.

Arthur says Mal, and she wants to sear that name into her skin. She needs something physical to remind her that what happened was real. When they send her off like a discharged patient, she goes home and dreams of short hair and unwavering eyes.

The next day, she gets a message from an unknown number saying that if she wants to come back, she knows where to find them. Out of curiosity, she thumbs the call button and an automated voice tells her that the number has been disconnected.