Morning light filtered pale through the Y's curtains. Luxe woke first, as always. She sat up, scanning the room automatically—the dresser, the shoes, the door latch—before letting herself breathe. Aurora stirred minutes later, stretching with a soft groan.
"Day three," she mumbled, blinking at the ceiling. "Still not caught."
"Not caught," Luxe agreed, swinging her legs off the bed. She didn't add yet.
After breakfast—oatmeal, toast, and coffee so weak it looked like tea—they joined the line at the employment board. Aurora spotted Margaret, the red-haired typist from last night, already pinning up a notice for some charity event.
"Good morning, Rory," Margaret greeted, as if they'd known each other for years. "Still scrubbing dishes?"
Aurora smiled, shy but pleased. "For now."
"You'll get better work," Margaret said, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Typing pools are always desperate. Just practice your letters." She winked, then added, "And come to the common room tonight. A few of us are reading our terrible poetry out loud. Might as well suffer together."
Aurora's grin stretched wide. Luxe, standing behind her, felt a pang—part pride, part fear. Friends meant roots. Roots made you visible.
At Salvatore's, the kitchen was already a storm. Steam hissed, knives clattered, voices rose and fell in a rhythm Luxe was learning to predict.
She plunged her arms into the sink, scrubbing until her knuckles burned. Aurora dried plates beside her, humming under her breath. The tune had shifted—lighter, playful. Luxe caught herself almost humming along before biting it back.
"Keep your head down," she muttered.
"I am," Aurora said, though her smile gave her away.
The break bell rang near noon. Luxe and Aurora stepped into the alley, grateful for air that didn't taste like garlic and soap. Aurora leaned back against the brick, stretching her sore shoulders.
That was when the shadow fell.
Officer Daniels.
He strolled into the alley as if he owned it, hands tucked in his belt, smile lazy and wrong. "Well, look at that. Two hard-working girls."
Luxe's spine stiffened. "We're on break."
"On break," Daniels echoed. He tipped his cap. "That's good. A break's when people tell the truth."
Aurora pressed closer to Luxe.
Daniels's eyes slid over them, slow and assessing. "This city eats girls alive if they don't have protection. Lucky for you, I happen to have plenty to offer. Curfew, jobs, landlords—they all listen when I talk. You want to stay safe, you learn to talk back the right way."
Luxe's jaw tightened. "We're managing."
Daniels smirked, as if amused by her defiance. "For now. But you'll come around." He tapped the brim of his hat and sauntered off, leaving the smell of tobacco and something sour in his wake.
Aurora's breath came out shaky. "He's not going to stop, is he?"
"No," Luxe said quietly. "But neither are we."
That night, Aurora sat in the common room with Margaret and two other girls, listening to bad poetry about trains and lost loves. She laughed so hard she nearly cried, the sound bubbling up free and unafraid. Luxe sat on the edge, book in hand, but her eyes flicked often to the window.
Through the glass, she thought she saw the faint red glow of a cigarette across the street. Watching. Waiting.
She closed the curtain with steady fingers.
"Not tonight," she whispered.
And when Aurora caught her hand under the table, warm and real, Luxe squeezed back.
The poetry reading dragged on, but Aurora didn't seem to mind. Margaret read last, clutching her notebook with ink stains on the edges.
Her poem wasn't about trains or heartbreak but about the city itself—fog curling over rooftops, bells cutting through the dark, lives crossing and never touching. Her voice wavered, but she read all the way to the end.
The little group clapped. Aurora clapped the loudest.
Afterward, Margaret slid into the chair beside her. "You should try next time," she said. "Even if it's awful. Half of it's just standing up."
Aurora laughed nervously. "I've never written a poem."
"Then start," Margaret said simply. "Everyone has something to say."
Aurora went quiet, the smile softening into something more thoughtful. Luxe, watching from the corner, recognized that look—her sister taking in an idea, turning it over like a seashell in her palm.
For the first time in years, Aurora wasn't just surviving. She was imagining.
Later, when the common room emptied and the matron reminded them of curfew, Luxe and Aurora climbed the stairs together. Aurora was still smiling, hugging her borrowed notebook against her chest.
"She thinks I can write a poem," she whispered as they reached their door.
"You can," Luxe said, unlocking it.
Aurora blinked at her. "You really think so?"
"I know so." Luxe pressed the words into her like a shield.
Aurora set the notebook on the dresser as if it were fragile glass, then crawled into bed. Luxe sat on her own mattress, pulling off her shoes slowly.
For a while, the only sounds were water pipes knocking in the walls and distant trolley bells outside.
Aurora's breathing steadied. Sleep tugged at her quickly, but Luxe remained awake.
She crossed to the window, parting the curtain a sliver. The street below was hushed, empty except for the glow of a lone streetlamp.
Yet in her mind, she still saw Daniels leaning in the alley, his smile stretched too wide, his voice dripping poison. Protection. You'll come around.
Her stomach knotted.
The Y quieted quickly after curfew. Doors shut. Voices fell into whispers. The faint click of typewriter keys drifted through a wall—someone sneaking in practice after hours.
Aurora propped herself up on one elbow, eyes heavy but restless. "Luce?"
Luxe turned her head. "Mm?"
"Do you ever think about…what we'd be if none of it had happened? If we weren't running?"
Luxe thought of the compound. The floodlights. The chants. The river's black water. She thought of Eileen's sandwich, Ruby's nod, Grace's blunt kindness.
She whispered, "I think this is who we are. Not what happened to us. Not what we ran from. This." She gestured around the little room—the beds, the dresser, the faint smell of soap. "Choosing. Building."
Aurora's smile was soft, drowsy. "Then maybe I'll write about that. Not cages, not running. Just…choosing."
"You should," Luxe said.
Aurora settled back, notebook still hugged against her chest. Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
Luxe lay awake longer. Every creak of the floorboards in the hall made her tense. Every car horn outside made her imagine Daniels turning the corner.
She rose once, padding silently to the window. The street was quiet, fog rolling in like a slow tide. Nothing moved under the lamplight. Still, her stomach wouldn't unclench.
She pressed her palm against the cool glass and whispered, "You won't touch her."
Her reflection stared back—drawn, tired, but unbroken.
Finally, she returned to bed, curling on her side so her hand could rest lightly against Aurora's arm.
Aurora shifted in her sleep, murmuring something Luxe couldn't catch. But her lips curved faintly upward, as if even in dreams she was smiling.
Luxe let her eyes close at last.
Far across the city, in the haze of a bar filled with smoke and cheap bourbon, Daniels tipped his glass back and laughed at something one of his men said. But his mind wasn't on the joke. It was on two girls—one sharp, one soft—who didn't yet realize how small San Francisco could become when he decided to tighten the net.