Bessia—POV
The bathroom mirror reflected someone Bessia herself barely recognized.
Golden hair—actually golden now instead of matted brown-red with accumulated grime and blood—fell in clean waves past her shoulders. Her skin showed its natural pale tone rather than dirt-caked survival pallor. Her features, freed from combat residue, revealed a delicate structure that outpost life had hidden beneath necessary filth.
I forgot I could look like this, Bessia thought, running fingers through hair that felt soft instead of crusted.
She'd spent three hours in the bathroom that first night—scrubbing away months of accumulated grime, watching the water run brown then gray then finally clear, discovering her actual appearance beneath the heavy survival's coating.
Her roommate had waited patiently, apparently unsurprised by the outpost recruit needing an extended cleaning session.
Because she's never been that dirty, Bessia recognized.
