I yank off my club gear, every motion heavy. My boots land with a thud and I just stand there, too tired to move. Rhea isn't around, she must have left immediately after her last set, not even bothering to stick around for cleanup or goodbyes.
Can't blame her. I peel off my lashes, wipe the layers of makeup from my face and throw on an oversized hoodie and jeans. The hoodie and jeans swallow my shape. I vanish inside them, anonymous again.
Outside, the night slaps me... Wet concrete, exhaust, the club's bass muffled behind a steel door.
My breath comes out in a shaky exhale; I hadn't realized I'd been holding it since seeing Jim on that floor.
I fish in my pocket for a cigarette, a bad habit, but after the night I've had, I need something to steady my nerves. Cupping my hand against the breeze, I light it and take a long drag. The smoke curls up past the dull security lamp over the door. That's when I notice the fresh spray paint on the metal exit door, to the left of where I'm leaning.
"YOU DON'T OWN ME."
The words are scrawled in jagged black letters, still dripping in places. They weren't there at the start of my shift, I'm sure of it. The graffiti stands out against the corroded steel door. I stare at the message, transfixed.
My jaw tightens. I breathe in, slow and shaky and stare until the paint blurs.
I stare at it and try to picture who bothered with a message like this. Maybe someone pissed at the boss, maybe just someone tired of feeling small. I can't picture their faces. I wish I could believe it.
I reach out and trace one letter lightly with my fingertip, feeling the tacky fresh paint. It smears black on my skin. I smear a black streak across my fingers, thumb it, then wipe it on my jeans. My wrists still itch where the club stamped me earlier.
The men like Gold Tie who think a few credits can buy my body and compliance? Or the system itself, the city's gears that grind us all down?
A drop of black paint runs down from the word "OWN," cutting the phrase in two.
My cigarette has burned low; I take one last drag and flick it to the wet pavement where it hisses out.
"You don't own me," I whisper into the empty alley, testing the words on my tongue. *Do I believe it? *
A distant siren wails. It's late. I shouldn't linger. I pull up my hood and step away from the door, leaving the bold graffiti to glisten under the weak light. On my long walk to the transit station, those words get stuck in my head for no good reason. You don't own me. They drum along with my pulse, step after step.
The city never really goes dark, not in Southstack District, but tonight the walk from the Chrome Daisy to Megablock 8 feels emptier, every streetlamp meaner than usual. My comlink pings in my head, the newsfeed overlay flickering: DISTRICT ALERT – All AV transit and traffic into or out of Southstack is suspended. Ongoing gang activity. Residents advised to shelter.
Just background noise. Same as always. I walk fast, keeping to the edge of puddles and my head down.
After a block, I get that crawling feeling, like a tiny spider is walking the back of my neck. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and keep moving. At the next corner, outside a late-night noodle place, two men loiter near the steamed-up window. One's got a buzzcut and a glare; the other, a punk with silver studs in his face, catches my eye as I glance over. "What the fuck are you staring at?" he barks, taking a step toward me. His friend puts a hand on his chest, holding him back. I drop my gaze and move faster, heart thumping, the sense of being watched crawling right up under my scalp.
My neural comlink buzzes, Aron's name pulsing behind my eyes. I answer, trying to keep my voice steady as I walk faster.
"Where are you?" His voice is tense. "Southstack's locked down. You on the street?"
"Yeah. Leaving work. Almost home."
A pause, just his breathing for a second. "You always say that. You know Mom's freaking out."
"I'm fine, Aron."
Another pause. "I swear, if you don't come back, I'll come get you. I mean it."
"Don't. Don't start this." I check over my shoulder, nerves sparking again. "I'm just tired. Please."
"It's not safe, Lyra. I saw the feeds. You shouldn't be there."
"Yeah, well, I am." My jaw aches from clenching. "I gotta go."
A beat. "Just... Call me when you get in, okay?"
I don't answer. I cut the call with a blink, press my palms flat against my thighs and keep moving.
My own footsteps slap the sidewalk, out of time with the city. I hear another set behind me, maybe just a half-step late. Don't look. Just keep moving. My shoulders creep up, jaw clenched, the back of my neck slick with sweat. The air's close and greasy and I try not to break stride.
I cross at a red, barely waiting for the traffic to slow. When I finally glance back, there's just a figure near the streetlamp, standing too still for this hour. Could be waiting on a ride, could be nothing at all. I don't see a face, just a body hunched against the cold.
Just act normal.
I keep moving. My heart thuds at my collarbone, breath catching in my throat. I don't run but I don't slow down until I reach the lobby lights of Megablock 8. Only then do I let myself breathe.
I keep my eyes forward, but even inside, my shoulders stay tight, like something out there hasn't let go yet.