Reza
The first instinct is to leave.
Not panic, not yet. Just recalculation. The subtle internal shift that happens when something ordinary turns slightly wrong and your body notices before your mind does.
“We should go,” I say, low, turning toward Sheila. “It’s getting crowded.”
Brianna is still laughing, face streaked with glittering blue stars, clutching a prize nearly as big as her torso. She doesn’t hear me, or chooses not to. She spins once, dizzy with joy, jacket flashing yellow in the sunlight.
Sheila doesn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes are moving.
Not scanning.
Fixating.
A wrongness slides under my ribs.
“Sheila,” I repeat, sharper now. “We’re done for today.”
She nods too fast. “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s..”
And then I smell it.
Not strong. Not obvious.
But wrong.
Leather
