Reza
By the time I’m standing in front of the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
Not because I look different, though I do, but because the woman staring back at me looks like she’s preparing for battle rather than a night out.
I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress for the third time. It’s dark red, soft and fluid, clinging just enough to remind me that I still have a body, that I still exist outside of shock and scent and power. My long blonde hair falls loose down my back, freshly washed, still faintly damp at the ends. I’ve added eyeliner, more than usual, and a swipe of lipstick that feels too bold, too deliberate.
Too much.
Perfect.
Starla stirs uneasily beneath my skin.
- This is a bad idea, she murmurs.
- I know. But I don’t stop.
Because sitting alone tonight would
