Chapter 16: Rainy day

I spent the better part of the evening unpacking everything the courier had brought—dyes, fabrics, needles, spools of thread in colors that glimmered just a little too brightly under lamplight. It felt like unboxing potential. Tools, materials, the bones of things yet to be shaped. A wearable power suit would come later, but first, I had something simpler, more elegant in mind.

An umbrella.

A proper one.

I spread disposable foil across the floor like a ritual mat and laid the open umbrella flat in the center. First, the handle—sprayed in sleek, shimmering silver, then detailed with faux plating and a thin black wire coiling from the button up toward the canopy. It looked like circuitry pretending to be muscle.

Then came the canopy itself. I treated both the top and underside with layered swirls of silver, charcoal, and stark white. Angular, machine-like designs mimicked armor plating across each panel. The effect was otherworldly, as if a mechanical bird had opened its wings in my room.

The underside took the most time. I painted thin cords in black and metallic blue, stretching from the ribs down to the base of the shaft. At the apex, where the umbrella’s point came to a sharp little spike, a ferrule, I painted a crackling spark—glowing with imagined electricity. Around it, I placed four rotor designs, evenly spaced and aggressively streamlined. High-speed thrusters, at least in theory.

I used my best dyes. My best paints. I didn’t rush it. I breathed magic into each layer.

Once it was dry, I folded it carefully and examined the result. Closed, it looked like a heavy baton, chrome-tinted and battle-ready. I smiled to myself and whispered, Be a hard metallic baton. I felt the identity take root instantly—my Authority rewriting its essence like a quiet hum in the air.

I swung it experimentally. It cut the air with a satisfying swoosh. Then I gave my chair a solid jab. The thunk it made was deep and weighty. More than just fabric and wood. Much more.

I released the enchantment and opened it again. Be my power armor shield tool. The Authority surged in, subtle and absolute.

I leaned it up, stepped back, and tossed a book directly at it. It struck the canopy—and bounced off harmlessly, the umbrella unmoved. A quiet thrill ran up my spine. Score.

I grinned and took it back into my hand. A press of the first button sent imaginary current through the painted wires, straight to the rotors. They whirred—not with actual blades, but with sheer belief. Air scattered forward in a rush, blowing papers and pens from my desk like startled birds. I quickly hit the button again. The spinning stopped.

Then I thumbed the second button, the one tied to the painted lightning spike. I held my breath. A soft, electric buzz whispered from the tip—subtle, but real enough to make the hairs on my arm stand.

I shut it off and cradled the umbrella gently in my arms like a sleeping pet.

“You need a name, baby,” I whispered. “What else would an umbrella be called, if not… Ella?”

I twirled her once and smiled.

“You’re Ella now. And you’ll answer when I call, won’t you?”

There was no answer, of course. But in the quiet hum of the cooling air, the way she gleamed in the light—she didn’t need to speak. I knew she’d heard me.

I removed the authority from Ella and quietly closed her. As much as I admired the versatility she'd given me—how effortlessly she fit into my hand, how subtly she passed as an everyday object—I needed to put her aside for now. She was a weapon cloaked in modesty, and I liked that. But today called for a different kind of preparation.

Making of my suit started the way most good things did—with a mess.

I knelt on the floor, surrounded by bags, rolls, and a stack of half-folded materials that had threatened to collapse more than once. My sewing machine—an old but reliable beast of a model I found secondhand—still sat in its travel case like a hibernating animal waiting to be woken up. I popped the latches open, lifted it free, and placed it reverently on the corner of my desk, already cleared of sketchbooks and scattered pencils.

The hum of rain in the distance—soft and rhythmic like a drum—reminded me that the weather outside matched the storm of ideas in my head.

One by one, I laid out the materials. Silver sport fabric, flexible but dense, meant for compression and stretch. Sheets of black neoprene-like lining I’d cut into support layers. Paints, bias tape, metallic threads, soft plastic trims, heat-reactive inserts. My scissors, chalks, seam rippers, hand needles. I placed everything in its place like a surgeon before an operation.

No magic. Just cloth and tools. Just me and the vision.

I unfolded the silver stretch fabric first, letting it flow over the desk like quicksilver. It gleamed even under the dorm’s mediocre lighting. Futuristic, cold, elegant. It already looked like something from another world. I couldn’t help but run my hand across it, feeling the smooth, synthetic surface. This would be the skin of the suit.

I had a set of sketches pinned to the wall nearby: schematic-style drawings of what the final suit would resemble. Thin contours, panel shapes, where seams would lie, where volume would give the illusion of layered plating. Somewhere between sportswear and exosuit—functional, yes, but striking. Something Usagi would wear. Something fast, light, rabbit-like.

The machine whirred softly as I tested the pedal. Still responsive. That was good.

It had become clear to me as I prepared everything—Shiroi wielded something akin to a Domain of Materials. Every fiber told him its secrets. And the deconstruction soulmark he bore… it wasn’t just utility—it was philosophy. With it, he could reduce anything to its fundamental threads, strip it down to essence. What had once seemed like a harmless quirk—his love for tailoring—was really camouflage for someone capable of unraveling the world.

Kind of hilarious, really. How a chill guy with a thimble obsession turned out to be a walking weapon system.

I chuckled at that thought and went to set up my workspace the way I liked it: machine to the left, sketchbook to the right, tools laid out on a strip of soft foam so they wouldn’t roll around. My laptop was off. No distractions. Just creation. The fabric scraps went into a separate box. I didn’t throw anything away—I never knew what would become useful.

I had everything ready to begin.

But as I reached for the chalk to mark my first guide lines, my phone chimed.

Mr. Penrose. His voice was cool as ever. “Your ride is en route. Twenty minutes.”

The anticipation would only make the process sweeter. Better to have the foundation ready. To know that when I returned, everything would be waiting for me. Ready to transform under my hands.

I shut the lid on the fabric box with care and gave the machine one last glance.

“Soon,” I said, smiling to myself. There is work to be done.

In my room’s mirror, I stared at myself. Freckles, tired eyes, tangled hair from too much focus and not enough sleep. Not fit for the job ahead. I reached for the kit.

Makeup was a mask. Not one of deception—one of transformation. I blurred out most of my freckles, leaving just a faint smudge across my nose and cheeks—enough for realism. I sculpted my face with subtle, sharp lines, refining the shape of my jaw and cheekbones until I looked like someone more confident. Someone colder.

Blue contact lenses replaced the warm brown and green of my real eyes, adding an unnatural clarity to my gaze. Then came the light brown wig—short and deliberately choppy. Masculine-adjacent, gender-fluid. Calculated ambiguity.

I stuffed my bra to push my silhouette further toward a shape that wasn’t mine—just close enough to be believable in motion, distant enough that no scan would tag me as Alexa or Jess.

Black cargo pants, a fitted black t-shirt, and a cropped black tactical jacket. Functional, clean, forgettable in a crowd. A short, dusty scarf wound around my neck, half for concealment, half for identity. Finally, I pulled on a thin gray beanie, tugging it just above the brow line.

And just like that—Gertrude Monkey was born.

Not glamorous. Not smooth. But smart. A little feral. A shadow that didn’t beg for attention, but couldn’t be dismissed.

I glanced once more in the mirror and let my expression settle. Blank, observant. A small lift of one eyebrow. Gone was the girl who spent hours stitching armor plates out of fabric. Gone was the injured bridge-walker, the shadow-talker, the maybe-hero with cracked ribs and a thousand questions.

Gertrude Monkey was the answer now.

And she was ready.

--

I waited by the stoop of my building as the camper van rolled up to the curb with a low purr. The kind of car that blended into road-trip daydreams or quiet retirements—not cloak-and-dagger errands. The door creaked open and out stepped a man who looked like a giant.

Thomas Torque.

His blonde beard was longer now, carefully groomed despite the unruly streaks of silver threading through it. He had hair too—thin, scattered patches that made him look older than I remembered. No wonder he kept his head shaved before; vanity, sure, but maybe a little mercy too. Now he wore rimless glasses, and despite everything, he looked… alive.

“You look different, Thomas,” I said with a smile. “But I like it.”

He turned toward me, first his head, then his whole mountain of a body. For a moment he just stared, processing, and then the familiar glimmer sparked in his eyes.

“Damn it, girl,” he said, grinning. “You fooled me again. What’s your name these days, hmm?” He chuckled.

I did a small, theatrical spin. “Gertrude Monkey, nice to meet you.”

“I like it. Why Monkey, though?”

“Why not?” I shrugged, grinning.

“Never mind,” he said, laughing through a sigh. “Get in. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

“Yes, Mr. Chauffeur.” I opened the passenger-side door and slid into the seat beside him.

“The camper van, seriously?” I asked once we were on the road.

He glanced at me, feigning offense. “It’s low-profile. If someone stops us, we’re just two idiots who got lost on the way to a campsite.”

“Sure, big man,” I said. “How are you, really?”

“Good enough to be working again. But…” He hesitated. “Between us? I think something broke in my head.”

I turned slightly, watching him as the trees blurred by outside. “How do you mean?”

“I can’t remember what happened during the chase. Or rather—I do, but it doesn’t make any damn sense.”

The world had adjusted his memory—shaved off the sharp edges, wrapped the truth in wool.

“What do you remember?”

“Well,” he began, fingers tapping the wheel, “we tore through Honey’s place, found a laptop. Then some Japanese guy appeared. I think we fought? Or wrestled? But then we ran.”

He frowned.

“You see? That’s the first red flag. Wrestled? Why would I wrestle him? I’m me. I’d drop him. And I ran? Doesn’t track.”

He shook his head, frustrated. “Then he chased us on a motorbike. I was driving. And I lost control of the car. Ended up in the river. I. Lost. Control. Of. The. Car.” He said it slow, each word weighted. “You hear me, girl? Me.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Seems unlikely.”

“So what the hell really happened, Alexa?”

I looked ahead at the trees thinning into highway, “I could explain it,” I said. “But you’d forget anyway. That’s how this works. You got any paper in here?”

He exhaled hard. “There should be some paper in the back. In the living space. Want to help yourself? Need something to write with?”

“Nope,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Got my watercolor pens.”

I had my Travel Grimoire too, but I wouldn’t desecrate that. That book held more than memory now.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

I crawled into the back of the van. The interior smelled faintly of old upholstery and cedar oil, Thomas’s attempt at making the camper feel “outdoorsy.” I found a small pad of paper tucked between some survival rations and a half-packed sleeping bag. I settled into the booth seat beside the tiny table and began to paint.

The scene came easily: Shiroi, mid-motion, unraveling the metal of Thomas’s beloved car like it was thread. Torque inside, braced for impact, moments before the river swallowed them. I didn’t need reference. It was burned into me.

Then, with a breath, I infused it with the light of my authority—the quiet hum of reminder, an identity soulmark’s whisper turned into permanence.

When I returned to the front, we were miles from the city, driving through vast nothing, northbound toward the wilderness—where the land flattened into lakes and pine-slicked air.

“I got something for you,” I said, buckling back in. I handed him the painted page.

He looked at it for a moment. Quiet. Then folded it in half and tucked it into his breast pocket.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Keep it close. That paper holds the truth you’re not allowed to remember. Keep it on you—wallet, glove box, whatever, just don’t let it get damaged.”

He nodded slowly. “Sure. But why?”

So I told him.

I told him everything.

About Honey’s real nature. About Shiroi’s power. About magic, memory distortion, soulmarks. About my own journey—what I’d taken, what I’d lost, what I’d become. I laid it all bare. The invisible architecture of the world rebuilt in his ears.

He didn’t interrupt. Not once.

He didn’t laugh or scoff. He just listened.

That was Thomas Torque—never the smartest in the room, never the most subtle. But always the one who showed up. And stayed.

He didn’t need to understand it all. He just needed to know I believed it—and that was enough for him.

When I finished, he adjusted his glasses and nodded once.

“All right,” he said, exhaling slowly. “That makes more sense than what I remember.”

That was Thomas Torque in a nutshell—faith in his own abilities so unshakable that he’d rather believe in magic than accept that he could’ve lost control of a car or been overpowered by a smaller man. Pride wrapped in practical reasoning. He wasn't stubborn; he was just... sure of himself.

“So,” he continued, eyes still on the road, “if I understood correctly, we’re heading there today so you can see the place and paint it into your magic book, right?”

“Spot on, my friend,” I replied, settling back in the seat and letting the scenery glide by.

“Think you could take me—and the car—with you when you're done?”

I winced slightly. “I don’t know. I’m fairly confident I could take you, but the car? That’s probably out of the question. I don’t exactly have a safe destination prepped for four wheels and a roof, unless you’re okay with it materializing in the middle of Penrose’s office.”

He chuckled, low and rough. “Tempting.”

“Still, I might need to start painting a more open fallback space—for situations like this,” I added, half to myself. “Maybe a parking spot in that park…”

“No worries,” he said, brushing it off with a wave of his hand on the wheel. “I’ll just drive back alone. Not a big deal.”

“Sorry,” I said genuinely. “If I knew you were going to be my ride, I’d have prepped something.”

“Really, Alexa,” he said, glancing at me with a smirk, “it’s not a problem at all.”

He meant it. That was the thing about Thomas—beneath the bulk, the history, and the occasionally scorched-earth temper, he was reliable in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Not flashy. Not heroic. Just there when you needed him. And if he said it wasn’t a problem, then he’d already worked out ten backup plans in that tank of a head of his.

Still, I made a mental note: prep an open location in the Grimoire for future extraction operations. You never know when you’ll need to pull someone—and their vehicle—out of a jam.

The woods were coming up ahead now. The tree line thickening, the sky darkening in subtle hues of twilight. There was something sacred about the moment just before arrival—when silence filled the space between two people who knew what they were walking into, but not quite what they would find.

We didn’t speak for a while after that.

But it wasn’t awkward.

It was the kind of silence that felt earned.

--

Thomas pulled the camper into a small gravel parking lot nestled at the edge of the woods. Rain whispered across the windshield in gentle waves, soft but persistent. It was the kind of rain that soaked through slowly, almost politely. The kind you didn’t notice until it had already claimed you.

I stepped out and opened Ella—disguised as her unassuming, everyday form. The sound of the raindrops tapping on her surface was oddly soothing, like ambient music made just for us. It was fully dark now, past 8 PM. Only the faintest ambient blue remained in the sky, caught between branches. We had at least a half-hour of forest hiking ahead, as Thomas had explained during the drive.

He climbed out and threw on a raincoat, moving with slow, practiced efficiency. Without a word, he popped the hood and reached in to loosen something among the engine cables—no idea what, but I didn’t need to. I understood the purpose. A dead car meant a good excuse if we were spotted out here. Just a pair of unlucky hikers with engine trouble. Nothing suspicious. Nothing to see.

“Ready?” he asked as he let the hood thud shut.

“Yes,” I said, slipping into the raincoat he’d laid out for me earlier. It was slightly too big, but it felt like a shield, warm and quietly reliable—just like him.

We moved toward the narrow trail that vanished into the trees. Thomas carried a powerful flashlight, the beam cutting clean paths through the dense mist and pine-shadow. When the canopy thickened and the umbrella felt too cumbersome, I folded it and held it tightly by my side. My backpack shifted on my shoulders—the weight of my Grimoire and paints a steady reminder of the job ahead.

“Will you be able to paint in this?” he asked after we passed a fallen log and a thin stream winding across the trail, rainwater bubbling over mossy rocks. The forest was alive with the scent of petrichor and pine. The kind of scent that felt old. Rooted.

“No. Not here. I’ll take pictures, get a feel for the place—then paint back at the car from those and memory.”

He gave a short nod. That was it. No follow-up, no concern. He trusted the plan. Trusted me. I carried the paints anyway, just in case.

“We’re close. Should be able to see the guy’s place soon—down in the valley, near the lake.”

And he was right. Minutes later, the trees thinned, and we reached a sloping overlook—steep, rocky, covered in slick brush and clinging ferns. Down below, nestled behind thick stone walls, sat De Marco’s vacation mansion.

The place looked like someone had tried to resurrect the White House and shrink it down—but forgotten to take out the gloom. Victorian style. Slate roof. Heavy columns. Dark shutters that made the windows look like empty eye sockets. No charm. Just presence.

Guards were already pacing—two teams circling the perimeter, each with three people and a dog. Flashlights swept in wide arcs through the mist. Four more guards at the front gate, their silhouettes sharp against the glare of mounted floodlights. There were probably more inside.

Big trees dotted the fenced-in yard. One had a wooden swing swaying gently in the rain. Near it, a sandbox half-covered by a tarp, the kind of detail that didn’t match the fortress vibe. A family’s touch. Or the ghost of one.

Behind the house, a narrow paved path led down to the lake’s edge, ending at a small dock. Ropes tethered a few boats to rusted cleats. Two more guards were stationed there, weapons slung casually but visibly. A different kind of watchfulness.

On the opposite side, a housekeeper exited a side door carrying bags of trash toward a smaller, walled-off enclosure—garbage bins tucked into their own fortress within a fortress.

The whole place was locked down tight. A fortress, as much in posture as in design. Clean lines. Clear sightlines. Few vulnerabilities.

I took as many photos as I could with my phone, careful to stay low, careful to capture the angles I might want later. But something gnawed at the edge of my thoughts.

What would be the best place to paint?

Where could I appear?

Because it wasn’t just about capturing the moment—it was about choosing the right one. The point of entry mattered. The when as much as the where. Everything flowed from that.

The swing? Too exposed.

The rear dock? Guarded.

The trash enclosure? Unwatched. Humble. Forgettable. Which made it powerful.

Or… maybe the canopy above the house. Tree branches like arms. An aerial approach. Maybe even from the lake…

I didn’t have answers yet. Just possibilities.

But that was the nature of a job like this.

“If you could appear anywhere out there,” I asked Thomas, eyes still scanning the mansion's perimeter, “where would you choose?”

He took a long moment, following the beams of flashlights below as they cut through the mist and rain.

“I’ve got no idea what’s inside,” he finally said. “But… probably that balcony near the trees. Or maybe the trees themselves.”

“Yeah,” I nodded slowly, “I thought about the trees too. Good cover. But I can’t paint what’s under the leaves, and I’m afraid I’d land somewhere off. Could get tangled. Or drop straight into a dog’s teeth.”

He chuckled once under his breath, no humor in it.

“Same problem with the garbage enclosure,” I added. “I can’t see inside. So if I tried it, I'd probably appear right on top of it, which is… not ideal.”

“You want to go down? Get a better view?”

“No thanks,” I said quickly, pressing my palm to my side. The pain flared in sharp agreement. “My ribs are killing me, and I’m not in the mood to climb back up this rockslide.”

Still, the conversation sparked something. A loose thread I could follow.

“I’ll paint this place.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Which place?”

“Right here. Where we’re standing.”

He blinked, confused. “Why? You’re not exactly close to the action.”

“Because,” I said, gesturing around at the slope, at the view framed in pine and rain, “I already have a strong memory tied to it. And it’s a good vantage point. Quiet. Overlooked. I can see everything unfold from here.”

He studied me a moment, then nodded slowly, understanding starting to settle.

“I’ll come back during the day,” I continued, pulling out my phone to take a few more photos from different angles. “Less rain. More light. Then I’ll decide on an approach.”

Thomas didn’t interrupt. He knew when I was in the middle of solving a puzzle.

The slope, the cold, the mist-draped house in the valley—all of it burned itself into my mind with quiet insistence. This place had already become part of the story. A foothold.

A frame for what was to come.

“Let’s go back,” I said softly.

Thomas didn’t argue. Just clicked on the flashlight and turned. We moved together in silence, retracing our steps through the woods.

--

We reached the car in about forty minutes.

I could’ve portaled home at any moment. But I didn’t want to leave Thomas alone—not after what happened with Shiroi. Not after watching his memories crack and realign like broken glass forced into a new pattern. He needed the company, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.

We approached cautiously, steps muted against the wet underbrush. Just in case. We weren’t expecting trouble, but trouble rarely cares what you expect. Luckily, the clearing was empty. No fresh tire tracks. No strangers. No watchers.

Thomas moved straight to the front of the camper, popped the hood, and worked in silence. I didn’t ask what he was doing—I already knew. The same subtle sabotage he did earlier to make our presence here plausible: the stranded travelers act. A loose cable, a story we could fall back on. Clean. He had to undo it now.

Within minutes, the engine purred to life, and we were rolling again.

I didn’t take the passenger seat this time. Instead, I slipped into the back of the camper and settled by the small table. The soft creak of the wheels and the rhythm of raindrops on the roof were the only soundtrack I needed. I opened my travel grimoire—its pages still warm with intent—and let it breathe in the memory with me.

I began painting.

The overlook, I’d started to call it in my head. A place half-swallowed by mist and branches, black and slick with rain. The slope angled just right, like the world holding its breath, waiting to slide. The mansion crouched below, a pale eye in the valley, watching the lake instead of us. Distant, but never far enough.

I worked in shades of black, grey, and deep blue. Not out of preference—but because that’s what the moment demanded. That was the soul of it: the cold hush of night. The shape of branches leaning like listeners. The quiet patience of the slope.

I didn’t need detail. Not every tree, not every raindrop. Just the essence. Just enough to root me to that time and place, so that later, when I turned the page and activated the ink with a touch of authority, it would remember me—and I it.

That’s what mattered. Not the geometry, not the accuracy, but the identity. The soul of the place.

I understood that better now.

Since the last time I touched my soulcore, the truth of how my Grimoire worked had become clearer. It was never just about lines and pigment—it was about memory and belief. The more honest I was with the page, the stronger the tether became. The more I gave to the image, the more it gave back.

So I poured it in. Thomas’s steady presence beside me. The flickers of flashlight beams slicing through the dark. All of it flowed from my memory through my fingers, into the brush, and onto the page.

I looked at the painting when it was done, the ink still drying across the wet-paper grain. Even now, the Grimoire vibrated faintly with stored possibility.

This would be my anchor. When the time came, it would open like a door, and I would step through it, knowing exactly where I was meant to be.

I closed the book softly, setting it beside me like a sleeping pet.

In the front seat, Thomas hummed along to some old song on low volume, eyes on the road, hands steady.

The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had softened. The world outside blurred into streaks of shadow and faint light.

“We have company, Lex,” Thomas said, voice steady but low.

I moved into the driver’s cabin without a word, slipping into the passenger seat and buckling up. My eyes flicked to the side mirror.

“The black pickup truck?” I asked.

“Yeah. Joined us not long after we hit the road. At first I wasn’t sure, but I took a longer, out-of-the-way route—completely inefficient—and it still followed.”

“They want to see where we came from? Or just waiting for us to stop?”

“No idea. But I doubt it's anything good.”

“Are you attached to this car?”

“Not particularly. Got it just for this job. Thought I’d use it again, but... plans change. What are you thinking?”

“Can they trace it back to you?”

“Nope. It’s clean.”

“Then we could abandon it. Let them have it. Let them drive themselves mad.”

He glanced at me, catching on immediately. “Will you be able to take me with you?”

I smiled to myself. He adapted fast—his mind already running alongside mine, even in terrain that had to feel surreal. I liked that about him.

“I think so.” I wasn’t entirely sure. I didn’t know the real limits yet. Was it about people or mass? I’d taken Peter and Zoe together once. They probably weighed about the same as this gentle giant, maybe a bit less. But Thomas alone? Should be manageable.

“Okay then. What’s the play?”

“We turn the van into a Trojan horse. Leave it as bait—doors unlocked, keys inside. Let them steal it if they want. I’ll paint the interior before we go so I can check back in later. Then we ghost out—straight to my room.”

“Do it,” he said, without hesitation.

I nodded and darted back into the living space of the van. The rain outside was a constant murmur against the roof. I opened my Travel Grimoire and started painting—the little table I’d just been sitting at, the mismatched cabinets, the white and wood-paneled walls. The mess of supplies I left strewn around during the scramble. A couple of crumpled coffee cups. The side door. The tiny bathroom in the back. Just enough to ground the memory. To give the page weight.

When I was done, I called out to Thomas.

“Pick somewhere open and bright,” I said. “Let them see no one got out. Let their imagination do the work. The weirder it feels, the more reality will bend to explain it.”

He nodded and kept driving.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into a gas station. Thomas parked us in a floodlit space, right next to the building—fully visible, no shadows to hide in. As expected, the black pickup followed and pulled into a space opposite us. Close. Watching.

We were already in the back when we heard car doors open and close—three distinct sounds. They were coming to investigate.

Thomas placed his hand on my shoulder. Large. Warm. Steady.

I opened the grimoire to the painting of my room and met his eyes. He didn’t speak, but his jaw was tight, his focus absolute.

I closed my eyes and thought:

Let’s go home.

When I opened them again, we were standing in the middle of my room.

Messy, cramped, unmistakably mine. Clothes, materials and pieces of fabrics tossed across the bed and floor. My makeup table in disarray—exactly how I’d left it when I scrambled to change into Gertrude.

Thomas took a deep breath and slowly let go of my shoulder.

“That was…” He paused, blinking at the cluttered surroundings. “…is this your room, Lex?”

“Yeah,” I said, already a little sheepish. “Sorry for the mess. I didn’t really get time to clean after I changed. Phillip did not give me much time.”

He chuckled softly. “I see. Well… thanks for the ride.”

He moved toward the door, and I followed, tossing my wig and coat onto the bed as we passed.

“It was different from what I expected,” he added as he stepped into the common room, “but amazing nonetheless. Can’t wait to repeat that.”

“Anytime, big guy,” I said with a grin. “You’ll be all right getting home?”

“Yeah. But I guess I owe you an invite to my place next.”

I laughed. “Probably a good idea. Especially if you want me to do my magic there, too.”

He smiled, then slipped out the door.

“Good night, Lex.”

“Night, Thomas.”

I closed the door and turned—

—and froze.

Sophie was sitting in the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other dramatically clutching her chest. Eyes wide. Smile wider.

Oh no.

“Big guy? Do my magic? Thanks for the ride? Different from what I expected but amazing nonetheless?!” she echoed, her voice rising with every quote. “Girl, what the hell kind of evening did you just have? And how did you sneak a man that size into the apartment without me noticing?!”

I sighed.

Rainy days.