The storm drain spat her out like something it couldn't stomach.

  What emerged was not human.

  A slick, serpentine thing squeezed through the narrow grate, its form undulating in wet, peristaltic waves. It moved like a worm fleeing drowned earth, boneless and writhing, leaving a trail of filth across the ground as it dragged itself away from the drainage pipe.

  For a long moment, it simply lay there. Breathing. Pulsing.

  Then the flesh began to shift.

  It was not a pleasant process. Bones cracked and reformed beneath the skin. Muscles stretched, tore, knit themselves back together. The serpentine mass bulged and contorted, limbs pushing outward like grotesque buds, fingers splitting apart from fused digits, a face pressing up through featureless flesh—

  Magnolia gasped.

  She was human again. Naked and shivering and covered in a layer of grime so thick she could taste it on her lips. Sewer water. Blood. Something worse. The stench clung to her skin, her hair, seeped into her very pores.

  She lay on her side, cheek pressed against cold stone, and focused on the simple act of breathing.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  She was out. She was alive.

  That had to count for something.

  Her mind drifted back to the transformation—the way her body had known what to do without her telling it. The serpentine form had come instinctive. And the tentacles before that, in the alley. Two shapes. Two configurations that her flesh seemed to remember, even if she didn't.

  How am I not dead?

  The thought surfaced uninvited. She'd compressed her organs, her bones, her brain—squeezed herself through a gap barely wider than her fist. By all rights, she should be a smear of pulped meat on the sewer floor.

  But she wasn't.

  Something in her sorcery protected her. Kept her alive even when her body twisted into shapes that should have been fatal. Perhaps there were some shapes that she’d know how to turn into instinctively.

  She didn't understand it. Couldn't explain it.

  But she was grateful for it.

  Magnolia pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The world lurched sideways, black spots swarming at the edges of her vision. The wound on her chest, that impossibly clean cut from Kazane's blade, had closed at some point during her escape, the flesh knitting together in ways that weren't quite natural.

  She forced herself to stand.

  Her legs trembled violently beneath her. She caught herself against a nearby wall, rough brick biting into her palm, and waited for the dizziness to pass.

  It didn't.

  She walked anyway.

  The drainage pipe had deposited her at the edge of some kind of canal, a sluggish ribbon of black water winding between cramped buildings. Magnolia staggered away from it, bare feet slapping against grimy stone, until she reached a proper street.

  Empty.

  The hour was late, later than late.

  Magnolia walked.

  She didn't know where she was going. Didn't have the capacity to think about it. Her body moved on its own, carrying her down one street and then another, past rows of buildings that leaned against each other like exhausted drunks.

  This isn't the same place.

  The thought surfaced slowly, sluggish, fighting through the fog in her skull. She blinked hard, forcing her eyes to focus.

  The buildings here were different. Smaller. Rougher. Unpainted stone, weathered and cracked. Wooden shutters hung crooked on rusted hinges. Laundry lines crisscrossed between upper windows, heavy with clothes worn thin from too many washings. The streets were narrower here, the gutters choked with refuse, and the air smelled of coal smoke and old cabbage and too many people crammed into too little space.

  Nothing like the district where Loric lived, those pristine facades and immaculate gardens, those wide boulevards lit by polished lamps.

  This place reminded her of the Satellite.

  The lower districts, Magnolia realized. Where the poor live.

  She should be thinking about what that meant. About where to go. What to do. How to find her way back to—

  Her thoughts scattered like ash in the wind.

  Too tired. Too hungry. Too empty.

  Her stomach cramped viciously, demanding food she didn't have. The exhaustion had seeped past her muscles and into her bones, weighing her down with every step. And beneath it all, a cold that had nothing to do with the night air, the chill of a body pushed far past its limits.

  Magnolia's foot caught on something.

  She stumbled.

  Caught herself against a wall. Pushed off. Kept moving.

  Just a little further. Just a few more steps. Find somewhere to hide, somewhere safe, somewhere—

  Her legs buckled.

  She went down hard, knees cracking against pavement, palms scraping rough stone. She tried to catch herself, tried to push back up, but her arms had stopped listening. They folded beneath her, and she collapsed—

  Cold. Hard. Ground.

  Magnolia lay where she'd fallen, sprawled across the street like a corpse. Her cheek pressed against the filthy ground. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and fell silent.

  Get up.

  The thought came from very far away.

  Get up. You're exposed. They'll find you. Get up. Get up. Get—

  The world pin-wheeled, folded into a single pinprick of light—then even that ember blinked out.

  In the dream, she could see her heart.

  She had no body here, no eyes, but the image filled her awareness anyway. Her heart hung suspended in darkness, beating its slow rhythm.

  Above the left ventricle, a black spot sat on the surface.

  Smaller than a freckle. Barely there at all.

  Stolen story; please report.

  It moved with each pulse.

  And it was spreading.

  The black bled outward in thin lines, threading across the muscle. Slow. Patient. The way ink spreads through wet paper, or mold creeps across bread left too long in the dark. She watched the stain grow, watched it trace the curve of her heart in hairline fractures.

  Her heart beat once. Twice.

  The spot expanded a little more.

  There was no pain. That bothered her more than the spreading darkness itself. Shouldn't this hurt? Shouldn't she feel something other than this detached fascination?

  The black reached further, thin tendrils branching out.

  Another beat.

  Then the rhythm stuttered.

  * * *

  Huff. Huff. Huff.

  The sound pulled her up from the darkness.

  Magnolia's eyes fluttered open, and immediately squeezed shut again as light lanced into her skull. She groaned, turning her face away, and something warm and wet pressed against her cheek.

  Huff. Huff. Huff.

  She cracked one eye open.

  A dog stared back at her.

  It was small, barely bigger than a loaf of bread, with a long body, stubby legs, and fur the color of warm chestnuts. Its ears flopped forward as it tilted its head, dark eyes bright with curiosity. A pink tongue lolled out of its mouth, and it huffed again, tail wagging so hard its entire back end wiggled.

  Cute. She thought instinctively.

  Magnolia blinked slowly. Her brain felt like it had been stuffed with wet cotton. She was lying on something soft, a bed, she realized. An actual bed, with actual sheets, and an actual pillow beneath her head.

  Where...?

  She pushed herself up onto her elbows, and the little dog scrambled backward, nails clicking against the wooden floor. Her head swam. Her body ached in places she didn't know could ache. But she was alive. She was—

  She looked down at herself.

  A white t-shirt. Simple. Clean. Black shorts that fit loosely around her hips.

  These weren't her clothes.

  Who dressed me?

  The question sent a jolt of unease through her foggy mind. She didn't remember this. Didn't remember any of this. The last thing she could recall was the street, the cold concrete against her cheek, the darkness rushing up to swallow her whole.

  And now she was here. Wherever here was.

  The little dog huffed again, tail still wagging, apparently unbothered by her existential crisis.

  Then she smelled it.

  Something warm. Something good. The aroma drifted up from somewhere below and carried hints of garlic and something sweeter underneath. It curled into her nose, slid down her throat, and wrapped around the hollow pit of her stomach.

  Her gut cramped so hard she nearly doubled over.

  Food.

  Someone was cooking.

  Magnolia swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room around her was small but tidy, wooden floors, whitewashed walls, a single window letting in pale morning light. Sparse. Functional. The little dog watched her stand, head tilting to the other side.

  "Stay," Magnolia muttered, though she wasn't sure why.

  The dog's tail wagged harder.

  She found the stairs easily enough, a narrow wooden staircase descending toward the source of that incredible smell. The aroma grew stronger as she walked down.

  The kitchen sat at the bottom of the stairs. Small, like the bedroom. A worn wooden table. A few cabinets. A cast-iron stove where a pot bubbled quietly, steam curling up toward the ceiling.

  And standing at the stove, back turned to her, was a man.

  He was tall. Lean. Black hair fell to just above his shoulders, tied back loosely with a simple cord. He stirred whatever was in the pot, humming something tuneless under his breath.

  Magnolia's hand found the wall, steadying herself.

  The man turned.

  He was handsome, the kind of handsome that seemed almost accidental, like he'd simply woken up that way and hadn't bothered to think about it since. Sharp features. Black eyes that crinkled slightly at the corners. And there, on the right side of his face, a small dark mole that drew the eye.

  He smiled.

  "Oh," he said, voice warm. "You're finally awake.”

  Magnolia's throat felt dry. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  The man set down his wooden spoon and wiped his hands on a cloth hanging from his belt. "You gave me quite the scare, you know. Collapsing right in front of my door like that." He shook his head, still smiling. "I thought you were dead at first. Nearly tripped over you on my way back from the night shift."

  "You..." Magnolia's voice came out rough, scraped raw. "You brought me in?"

  "Couldn't very well leave you there, could I?" He gestured vaguely toward the front of the house. "Middle of the night, passed out in the street? You'd have frozen. Or worse." His expression softened. "You looked like you'd been through hell."

  Magnolia didn't know what to say to that.

  The man seemed to sense her discomfort. He turned back to the stove, giving her space, and lifted the lid of the pot to check its contents. "The clothes are my sister's, by the way. I don't exactly have a lot of women’s clothing laying around." A small laugh. "Hope you don't mind. Yours were... well. Beyond saving, honestly."

  Sister.

  Magnolia's eyes drifted around the kitchen. Past the man. Past the stove. Taking in the details she'd missed in her hunger-daze.

  The house was... empty.

  Not abandoned. Not neglected. Just empty. Like a room where someone had removed half the furniture and never bothered to fill the space. There were hooks on the wall with nothing hanging from them. A shelf with a single cup where three or four might fit. A table with two chairs, but only one showed any signs of regular use.

  Something felt odd, though she couldn't quite name what was missing.

  "I'm Yi, by the way."

  She looked back at him. He'd turned to face her again, that easy smile still in place.

  "Yi," she repeated.

  "That's the one." He nodded toward the ceiling. "I've drawn a bath for you upstairs. Figured you might want to clean up before breakfast." His nose wrinkled slightly, though his smile didn't waver. "No offense."

  Magnolia almost laughed. She could still smell herself, the ghost of the sewers clinging to her skin despite the change of clothes. The man had been polite not to mention it outright.

  "The bathroom's the door at the end of the hall," Yi continued, turning back to his cooking. "Take your time. Food will be ready when you're done."

  Magnolia stood there for a moment longer, watching him stir the pot.

  A stranger. A stranger who'd pulled her off the street, dressed her in his sister's clothes, prepared her a bath, cooked her breakfast.

  Why?

  The question sat heavy in her chest.

  But the smell of food was making her head spin, and the promise of hot water called to her like a siren song, and she was too tired, too hungry, to interrogate kindness right now.

  "...Thank you," she managed.

  Yi glanced over his shoulder, smile widening just a fraction.

  "Don't mention it."

  The bathroom was small, like everything else in the house.

  A copper tub dominated the space, already filled with water that steamed gently in the cool air. A single window of frosted glass let in pale light. A wooden stool sat in the corner, and draped across it were fresh clothes. Simple. Folded neatly.

  Magnolia closed the door behind her and leaned against it.

  For a moment, she just stood there. Breathing. Letting the quiet settle around her like a blanket.

  Then she peeled off the borrowed clothes and stepped into the tub.

  The water was hot.

  A sound escaped her—something between a gasp and a groan—as the heat enveloped her body. She sank down until the water lapped at her collarbone, her muscles unknotting in ways she hadn't realized they'd been knotted. The warmth seeped into her bones, chasing out the lingering chill of the sewers, the streets, the endless running.

  God.

  She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper bath. Before the noble's son had taken her, certainly. Before the ropes and the blood and the thing in her head. It felt like another lifetime.

  The water turned grey almost immediately.

  Magnolia grimaced, watching the grime lift from her skin in murky clouds. She found a bar of soap on the edge of the tub and scrubbed. Her arms. Her legs. Her stomach.

  She scrubbed until her skin was raw.

  Then she ducked her head beneath the surface.

  The world went quiet. Muffled. Just the sound of her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears and the distant, distorted noise of the house above the waterline. She stayed under until her lungs burned, then surfaced with a gasp, pushing wet hair from her face.

  Better.

  Not clean. She wasn't sure she'd ever feel truly clean again. But better.

  Magnolia lingered in the tub until the water cooled, reluctant to leave its embrace. But eventually the temperature dropped enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, and her stomach cramped again, reminding her of the promise of food waiting downstairs.

  She climbed out, water sluicing off her body, and found a thin towel hanging from a hook on the wall. It was worn soft from use, and she dried herself quickly before turning to the clothes Yi had left for her.

  Simple, as promised.

  A loose cotton shirt, pale blue, with sleeves that fell just past her elbows. Dark trousers that cinched at the waist with a drawstring. No shoes, her feet were still bare, but the fabric was clean and soft against her skin.

  His sister's clothes.

  Magnolia paused, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt. She thought about the empty hooks in the kitchen. The single cup on the shelf. The chair that no one sat in.

  She thought about asking.

  She decided not to.