LUCY
If Tavric notices the transformation—the strange, fading silver-blonde of my hair or the newfound, dangerous curves of my body—he doesn't say a word.
He doesn't even show a flicker of surprise as I step out of the bathroom. He spares me a passing glance only, his face a blank, unreadable mask, before striding—fast, really, almost deliberately so — back to his post by the window.
What is his obsession with that specific patch of glass? I wonder, clicking the bathroom door shut behind me. And where did his notable smirk go?
I slip my feet into the flip-flops by the wall, the rubber quiet against the wood, and cross to the small velvet couch facing the window. I sit, trying to look as calm as possible for the conversation looming ahead, even as my nerves feel like a tangle of frayed wires.
"Have my friends been here this morning?" I ask, settling on a lighter topic—more to steady myself than out of any real curiosity.
