Fault Line

Chapter 6

The bus ride back is faster. Five hours before the fight, three before I need to be at the club.

I get off two stops early. Walk the rest. Cold air cuts through the streets, sharper this time of year. Everything’s quieter. People move quicker, heads down, hands in pockets. I keep going. Same route. Same pace. No reason to change it now.

My building looks the same as always—tired, holding together out of habit. I let myself in, up the stairs, keys out before I reach the door. Inside, it’s still.

I lock it behind me.

The lights make it seem smaller, so I leave them off. I switch the lamp by the door on instead. It lights half the room anyway.

The place is clean. Not spotless, but close enough. Nothing where it shouldn’t be. I drop my jacket over the back of the chair, line my keys up on the bench without thinking about it.

The TV goes on, low. Just for noise.

A woman’s voice cuts through the room—too polished, too steady.

“—continued success across the central districts, with match rates exceeding projections—”

I don’t look at it.

I go to the kitchen. Fridge—not much in there. Doesn’t need to be. I pull out what I need. Keep it simple. Pan on. Oil. Heat comes up quick. I move through it without thinking—cut, cook, turn.

“—official figures show a thirty-two percent increase in confirmed pairings this season, though fertility rates remain largely unchanged—”

Plate comes out. Food goes down neat. I wipe the plate when oil drips onto it. I don’t sit yet. Everything gets washed, dried, put away, handle of the pan lined up with the next one. Bench wiped down. Stove checked. Nothing left out.

Only then do I pick up the plate. I eat standing.

Fork to plate.

Chew. Swallow.

“—critics are questioning whether the program’s long-term impact is being overstated—”

I finish, rinse the plate, dry it, put it away. The TV keeps talking. I flick it off, uninterested.

The plant by the window has seen better days. I water it anyway.

Two hours.

Bathroom next. Water runs hot. Steam builds quick against the mirror. I step under it, let it hit the back of my neck, stay there a minute longer than I should. Then I move. Wash. Scrub. Rinse.

Wrapped in a towel, I move to the basin to brush my teeth. Then I brush them again. I look at myself in the mirror. Wet hair sticking to my arms. I take a breath.

Time for music. Low. Something with a steady beat. Enough to fill the space. Enough to feel in my chest. I brush every knot from my hair.

Clothes laid out on the bed. I pull them on piece by piece. Short. Tight. Barely warm enough. Jacket last.

Hair tied back, then loosened again. Sits better the second time. Makeup stays light. Clean lines—no mistakes.

I watch myself for a second. Nothing to fix. Music cuts. Silence drops back in. I move through the apartment one more time without thinking—checking what doesn’t need checking. Windows. Locked. Stove. Off. Lights. Where they should be.

I lock the door behind me and take the stairs—two stories down, coming out in the cramped entry.

"Careful, girl." A croak comes from the window at the end of the room. Jacinta sits hidden behind bars, much later than she'd normally be in.

I pause.

“You’ll get into trouble, out this late in Harley.” She leans forward at her desk, coughing into her hand.

I glance at the clock. Past nine. I keep walking. I almost make it out the door before I see it— The picture frame in the entry. Old photo of the building. Leaning to the left.

I hesitate. Too long.

Then I leave it.