The plates still held the faint warmth of breakfast when Keira stacked them into the sink and flicked Void a knowing look - it was her turn. Void stretched out of her chair, sauntered over, and slung the towel over her shoulder before twisting the tap open. She let her attention drift between the running water, the dishes, and Amy, who lingered nearby like a shadow waiting for permission to exist.

"I can... I can do them..."...

"What. The fuck," Keira groaned awake, shoulder screaming as she realized she'd been cuddling her spiked bat like it was a stuffed toy. "Brilliant. Hug your murder stick to sleep like a fucked-up five-year-old. No wonder your ribs feel like glass." She shifted, and sure enough - one of the spikes had broken skin. A slow bleed, nothing dramatic, but it stung like hell. "Tough bitch, downgraded to self-harm via snuggle-bat. Gold star, Keira."...

Amy blinked awake to the soft light of morning leaking through thin curtains. Her head felt heavy, her body sluggish, like she hadn't truly slept at all. She groaned, rolled over... And froze. She was back in her bedroom. Same peeling wallpaper, same lopsided desk shoved against the wall, chat log with Void wide open on the computer screen, same suffocating smell of mildew and smoke.

Her chest tightened. No warm couch, no faint hum of a city outside. No Void. No Keira. No dumplings. Just the oppressive silence of the house she'd sworn she'd never return to. A horrible acidic thought crept in: "I imagined it all. Every second. None of it was real."...

Streets were mostly dead, lamps casting faint orange light, producing lonely shadows over cracked pavement. Void stuffed her hands into her hoodie pockets, leading the way at a lazy pace. Amy walked just half a step behind, her bag strap twisted tight in her fingers like she was afraid it might float away without her.

For a while, it was just the footsteps and occasional hum of a passing tram in the distance. Then Amy broke the silence...

This entire park was too clean for Void's taste. It wasn't exactly a chrome district or one of those gutted oldyards where you could hear the ghosts rattle in the chain-link fences. It was a patch of green wedged between housing blocks, with neat benches, playground swings that squeaked like they were lubricating themselves out of spite, and the sound of children instead of gunmetal.

Void stood under the crooked shadow of a chestnut tree, hood half-up, hair flaring magenta in the late summer light. 16:00 sharp. She was a woman of clocks and precision. When you told someone to meet you at four, you didn't stroll in at 16:17 or "whenever PKP decides to bless you." You showed up, or you didn't. And Amy had not...