By Wednesday, the new clothes from Monday's shopping trip were protesting. The seams of the shirt strained across her back, where the wing buds now pushed against the fabric with more substantial presence. The pants, purchased with "room to grow," were already snug at the waist and short at the ankle.
Mrs. Evans' worry had crystallized into a quiet, persistent anxiety. She moved around the apartment with a preoccupied air, her eyes constantly tracking Astraea's height against doorframes, her growth against the refrigerator calendar where she'd begun making small notations. The "one week" grace period Astraea had begged for was crumbling under daily, visible evidence.
At CYAP, the clothing issue became a public spectacle. During "Active Luminescence"—a glorified game of tag where you had to tag others with your sparkle—Astraea lunged for Mia and heard a distinct rrrrip. The sound cut through the children's laughter. She froze, feeling the cool air on her lower back. The shirt had split along the seam between her shoulder blades, right where her wing anchors flared.
A collective "oooh" rippled through the group. Teacher Milly hurried over. "Oh dear! Don't worry, sweetie, accidents happen! Let's get you to the nurse's office for a safety pin."
The nurse's office was a small, sterile room smelling of antiseptic and bandages. Nurse Gable (no relation to the napping neighbor) was a brisk, kind woman with sharp eyes. As she expertly pinned the torn shirt, her hands paused on Astraea's back. Her fingers pressed gently along Astraea's spine, right over the T5 and T6 vertebrae.
"My," Nurse Gable said, her voice neutral. "You have quite the pronounced spinal column here. Very... sturdy." Her tone suggested it was more than sturdy. It suggested it was unusual.
"Growing pains," Astraea recited, the phrase becoming a mantra.
"Mmm," Nurse Gable hummed, not agreeing, not disagreeing. She finished the pinning and stepped back. "Those pants are looking a bit short too, aren't they? You must be shooting up like a weed. Your foster mother must be buying new clothes every week!"
It was a statement, but it hung in the air like a question. How are you affording this? How is this possible?
Astraea returned to the Sparkle Room, the pinned shirt a humiliating flag of her abnormality. The children had moved on to a new game, but their glances still flickered to her, to the clumsy repair job.
Leo sidled up, a spare CYAP sweatshirt in hand—one of the oversized ones kept for messy activities. "Here," he said. "Better than the pin."
Gratefully, she pulled it on. It was still tight across the shoulders, but it covered the tear. It also smelled faintly of Leo—a mix of graphite, green-apple soap, and the ozone-tang of his unique mana.
After CYAP, Mrs. Evans picked her up with a determined set to her jaw. "We're going to see Dr. Evans. Today. No arguments, Astraea. This has gone beyond waiting."
The pediatrician's office was a world of primary colors and cartoon murals that felt like a mockery. Dr. Evans was Mrs. Evans' friend, but she was first and foremost a professional. She listened to Mrs. Evans' concerned recital—the ravenous hunger, the overnight growth, the clothing destruction—with a neutral expression, her eyes cataloging Astraea.
"Let's get some baseline measurements, shall we?" she said, her voice soothing.
The measurements were a disaster. The scale beeped, showing a weight that had increased by eight pounds since her last recorded check-up two months prior—a check-up that hadn't happened in this lifetime, but the System had apparently fabricated plausible records. The height rod confirmed it: 147.1 centimeters. Dr. Evans checked her chart, then checked the number again.
"Your chart says 138 cm eight weeks ago." She looked at Astraea, then at Mrs. Evans. "That's over nine centimeters. In two months. The 95th percentile for growth in a year for her age is about six centimeters."
The room was very quiet. Dr. Evans had Astraea change into a gown for a physical exam. Her hands were cool and clinical as she felt Astraea's limbs, checked her joints, listened to her heart and lungs with a stethoscope. Astraea willed her heart to beat at a slow, childish rhythm, her lungs to breathe shallowly. She pulled her glamour tight around her scale, her teeth, the subtle silver tracery of developing veins.
"Her muscle density is... remarkable," Dr. Evans murmured, more to herself. "And her reflexes are hyper-responsive." She peered into Astraea's eyes with an ophthalmoscope. Astraea knew her pupils would contract not just to light, but to the specific mana-wavelength of the instrument. She forced them to react normally.
"I'd like to run some blood tests," Dr. Evans said finally, snapping off her gloves. "Check hormone levels, specifically growth hormone and IGF-1. Possibly a bone age X-ray."
Blood tests. X-rays. The blood would show cellular anomalies, mana-infused hemoglobin, who-knew-what. The X-ray would show vertebrae thickening, wing buds as dense, structured shadows, bones that were too perfect, too dense.
"Is it... necessary?" Mrs. Evans asked, picking up on Astraea's tension. "She seems healthy. Just... fast."
"Rapid, unexplained growth like this can be a sign of several conditions," Dr. Evans said gently but firmly. "Some benign, some not. We need to rule things out. For her safety."
Astraea's mind raced. She could refuse. But that would raise even more flags. She could sabotage the tests somehow—use a tiny void-touch to disrupt the X-ray plate, a subtle mana pulse to scramble the blood sample. But that required precision and control she wasn't sure she had in her stressed state.
"Can... can we do it tomorrow?" Astraea asked, her voice small. "I'm really tired today." It was true. The constant growth, the hunger, the stress—it was draining even her dragon endurance.
Dr. Evans looked at her, and for a moment, the professional mask softened. "Alright. First thing tomorrow morning. Fasting blood work. We'll schedule the X-ray for tomorrow afternoon."
It was a reprieve, not a pardon.
That evening, the new clothes Mrs. Evans had bought just two days ago were undeniably too small. The sweatpants were capris. The t-shirt was a crop-top. Astraea changed into the oversized CYAP sweatshirt and a pair of Mrs. Evans' own stretchy yoga pants, rolled at the waist. She looked like a child playing dress-up, but it was all that fit.
Mrs. Evans didn't comment. She just sat at the kitchen table, staring at the grocery list, then at the medical appointment card, her shoulders slumped. "I don't know what to do," she whispered, not to Astraea, but to the universe. "I just want you to be okay."
The guilt was a physical weight, heavier than any dragon scale. This woman had opened her home, offered kindness without condition, and Astraea was repaying her with lies and a medical mystery that was causing her genuine distress.
"I will be okay," Astraea said, coming to stand beside her. She placed a hand on Mrs. Evans' shoulder, feeling the tension there. "I promise." It was the most meaningless promise she'd ever made.
She retreated to her room and measured herself, a nightly ritual now charged with dread.
148.3 centimeters.
Another centimeter. While awake.
It wasn't just nocturnal anymore. It was constant. A slow, steady creep throughout the day.
[System notification!]
[Quest alert: 'Dress for success!']
[Objective: Acquire 5 new outfits that fit your current size! (Shopping spree!)]
[Reward: 'Fashion forward' Title, +5 to Style stat]
[Note: Looking good helps you feel good! Ask your guardian for a shopping trip!]
The notification was so catastrophically out of touch it looped back around to being funny. Astraea let out a choked sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. Style? Fashion? She was a biological time-bomb wearing another person's yoga pants.
The clothing issue was no longer an inconvenience. It was a countdown. Each too-small garment was a tick of the clock, bringing her closer to the moment when tests and scans would peel back her human skin and reveal the dragon beneath.
The seams were splitting, both in her clothes and in her carefully constructed life. Tomorrow, needles and X-rays would hunt for the truth. Tonight, the dragon in borrowed human leggings had to find a way to make them find nothing at all.