The streets smelled different from the school. Asphalt, oil, faint smoke from a distant grill. Concrete pressed cold beneath her bare feet. Taylor's body protested each step, knees stiff, muscles untrained for the miles she had once crossed in centuries of war. Yet the fear in the air steadied her pulse. Tiny, fleeting fears flickered in windows, in the shuffle of feet on sidewalks, in the tense murmurs of people passing each other.
For a while, she walked with no destination, irritation building with every step. Fragile human legs. Inadequate. The weight of flesh dragged at her, an insult she couldn't shed. Her hands brushed the brick walls as she passed, rough and damp and forgettable. Another texture this body insisted on noticing. The city's pulse was slow, but steady. Enough to feed, if measured correctly.
She passed a narrow alley tucked between two apartment buildings. The shadows pooled there, darker than the street, thicker, heavier. A faint movement caught her eye. She stopped, listening.
A man shoved someone against the brick wall. Harsh whispers and threats cut the air, the scrape of a hand along metal echoing softly. Fear radiated from the smaller figure, a boy pressed against the wall, eyes wide, breathing fast. Something sharp tightened in her chest. Finally. Conflict.
The attacker laughed, a wet, cruel sound. "Hand over your wallet, kid, now."
Yoru stepped closer, careful. Taylor's legs quivered beneath her, but she held herself upright. Her instincts clawed upward, impatient. The human body slowed her, but the fear was thick enough to steady her trembling.
The mugger glanced up, noticing her. "Hey! Mind your business, freak!"
Her expression stayed wrong. Too still. The fear from the boy flared in response. She let it pulse outward, brushing against the mugger's own fear. He hesitated, a crack forming in his confidence.
Her fingers itched to do more, to let instinct take over. Not yet. This body would fail if she pushed it. The limitation burned.
The mugger squared his shoulders, trying to reclaim space. "I said get lost."
Yoru didn't back away. She made him be the one who had to decide. Hesitation thickened the air, stretched thin and fragile, ready to tear.
Then she stepped into the alley.
"Run," the boy whispered, barely audible.
Yoru ignored him.
She stopped just close enough that the mugger had to look up at her properly. Her uniform was torn, stained, clinging wrong to her frame. Her eyes did the rest. Too still. Too focused. Not the look of someone afraid.
"What are you doing?" the mugger asked. His grip tightened on the knife.
Yoru tilted her head. She let the moment stretch. Let his thoughts race ahead of his body. Fight or flee. Injury or escape. The conflict sharpened, and with it came a familiar warmth under her skin.
Pick," she said. "Him. Or your legs."
The mugger laughed, short and forced. "You think you're scary?"
Yoru stepped closer.
The mugger's back hit the brick wall. Yoru moved fast. Not like she once would have. No explosion of force, no tearing steel or screaming air. Just a sharp step forward and a strike to the wrist, precise and ugly. Bone cracked. The knife clattered to the ground. The sound echoed. Satisfying.
He screamed.
Yoru seized the moment. She grabbed his arm, twisted, and drove him into the wall. His breath rushed out of him in a wet gasp. He clawed at her sleeve, nails scraping fabric, desperate now.
She leaned in, close enough that he caught his reflection in her eyes. Small. Already defeated.
"Run," she said.
She shoved him away.
He didn't hesitate this time. He bolted down the alley, limping, vanishing into the street beyond. His retreat left a hollow quiet behind, the kind that followed a fight decided too quickly.
The boy slid down the wall, shaking. He stared at her like she was something unreal, something he didn't have a name for.
"Are you" he started.
she turned away.
She crouched, picked up the fallen knife. It was cheap. Light. A tool born from human intent to harm. She rolled it in her palm, feeling how easily it could become something else. Not yet. The body wasn't ready. The idea lingered anyway, sharp and promising.
She set the knife on the ground instead and nudged it toward the boy with her foot.
"Take it," she said. "Go home."
He scrambled for it, nodded too many times, and fled the alley without looking back.
Yoru straightened. Her chest rose and fell faster than she liked. The body ached from twisting beyond its comfort. Beneath it, something steadied, sharp and precise. Progress.
She glanced once more at the dark mouth of the alley, then stepped back into the street.
The streets thinned as she moved farther from the main road. Traffic noise softened into a distant, constant hiss, like the city breathing through clenched teeth. Brockton Bay sagged under its own weight. Closed storefronts. Cracked pavement. Houses packed too close together, all of them tired in the same way.
Yoru walked with Taylor's memory guiding her. Turns taken without thought. Sidewalks avoided where the concrete dipped too sharply. The body knew this route. Had walked it too many times with its head down.
The house appeared at the end of the street, exactly where memory said it would be.
Two stories. Narrow. Paint peeling in places where no one bothered to scrape it anymore. The porch light flickered when it came on, slow to decide if it still wanted to work. One step sagged lower than the rest, cracked and uneven.
Yoru paused at the edge of the yard. Taylor's body hesitated, a subtle tightening in the chest, breath catching for no strategic reason. Yoru allowed the pause, examined it, then dismissed it. This structure meant nothing to her. Shelter was shelter.
She climbed the porch steps anyway. The loose board creaked under her weight, protesting the same way it always had. Danny would fix it. He always meant to. He never did.
The door unlocked with a familiar scrape. Inside, the house greeted her with stillness.
The air smelled faintly of old paper, stale coffee, and dust that had settled into corners no one looked at anymore. The living room lay just beyond the entryway, cluttered but untouched. Books stacked where they had been left. A jacket draped over the back of a chair. Framed photos on the wall, their edges dulled by time. A woman's smile lingered in them, sharp with intelligence and warmth that no longer lived here.
Annette.
Yoru felt the body react again. A pressure behind the eyes. Muscles tightening around the ribs. Grief. Not hers. She stepped past it like stepping over debris.
The kitchen light was on. Danny wasn't home yet. Work ran late more often than not. The absence made the space louder in its own way. Two chairs at the table. One used more than the other. Meals eaten across from silence.
Yoru crossed the kitchen without stopping. Her bare feet stuck faintly to the linoleum. She caught sight of herself reflected in the darkened microwave door. The eyes—human at first glance—held a faint swirl, subtle, dormant. A memory of war waiting beneath the surface. Rust and grime dried along her forearms. The uniform hung wrong on her, torn and stained beyond what could be ignored.
Later, she decided. First, upstairs.
The steps groaned under her weight as she climbed. aylor's room waited at the top. Small. Sparse. A bed pushed against one wall. A desk with an old computer tucked into the corner, cables tangled like roots. Posters half-peeled from the walls, corners curling inward as if trying to disappear. No trophies. No photographs of friends. Nothing that suggested someone had planned to stay long.
Yoru stood in the doorway and assessed it like territory. A blank slate. Useful.
She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, finally letting the body sag. The ache from the alley surfaced properly now. Bruises forming. Skin tender where it had been pressed too hard against brick. The flesh had limits. She would have to respect them until she no longer needed to.
Outside the window, the neighborhood murmured. Distant voices. A car door slamming. Somewhere, an argument sparked and faded without igniting into anything worthwhile.
Yoru moved to the sink and turned on the water. Cold. She watched red spiral down the drain as she scrubbed her hands clean. The rust followed. Then the city.
When she looked up again, the girl in the mirror stared back, exhausted and unfamiliar, but the faint swirls in her eyes hinted at what lay beneath.
"This will do," Yoru said quietly.