Sunday came whether I wanted it or not.
I stood in front of the mirror in my room while the light did its usual golden hour thing over the city, painting everything the color of a promise nobody intended to keep. I'd worn nicer clothes to worse events. The charcoal button-up Natalia picked, sleeves rolled to the forearm, dark jeans, nothing that screamed threat but nothing that apologized either. The pendant sat cold against my sternum right over the fifth node, and the node pulsed back at it, two rhythms fighting for the same real estate on my chest.
Bartholomew watched me from his terrarium with the serene judgment of a creature who has never once had to explain his father to his mother.
"Any advice," I said.
He kept eating lettuce.
"Cool. Great talk."
