The insult flew out into the air before Romy could even think. She was exhausted, had just lived through the biggest scare of her life, gotten lost in endless hallways, was about to lose a thousand dollars, and she was standing there, smiling like nothing had happened !

Ezia’s smile dropped immediately, her brows furrowed in confusion, which only irritated Romy further. She shoved her -or at least tried to shove her, but the brunette had already stepped aside, out of the way to unlock the vestibule door. She bolted up the stairs, four steps at a time, yanked her keys from her pocket, opened her apartment door, and stormed into the living room. Ezia followed silently, just behind her. Romy didn’t slow down, crossing the living room and heading into the open kitchen to pour herself a large, much-needed glass of water.

“Thanks for welcoming me into your home,” said her guest, settling onto the couch.

Romy stared at her, dumbfounded, running a hand down her face. If there was a God, now would be a great time to give her the strength not to slam Ezia through a wall. The girl looked fine. Her ripped jeans and oversized T-shirt, cut into a cropped top, were clearly her usual attire, no sign of injuries, not even a streak of mascara on her cheeks. She’d at least had the decency to drop her smile when Romy had snapped and now sat looking sheepish, avoiding eye contact. Her shoulders were hunched and her back curled forward, clearly uncomfortable on Romy’s secondhand, pink floral couch.

With a desperate sigh, Romy sat across from her on the leather footrest, the coffee table her only defense to keep from reaching over and strangling Ezia before getting some answers.

“What the hell was that about? You had me show up at god-knows-what-time to open the door for you. I thought you needed help,” Romy began. “Did you lie to me?”

She hated how much it stung to say it. Ezia had been the first person she'd somewhat bonded with at university, and since moving to Montreal, Romy had felt so alone. She’d really hoped that maybe, just maybe, that coffee meet-up had meant a budding friendship.

“What? Of course not! I never lie!” Ezia replied, sharply, more hurt by the accusation than by the earlier insult.

“Then what was so serious?”

“I... I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you.”

“Ezia, I rushed to get here. I might have lost a lot of money from a job. Why did you need to stay here?"

Blood rushed to her face, and Romy tried as best she could to calm herself down. It's true that she didn’t owe Ezia anything, they didn't even know each other ! A little explanation would be the least she could do. But when she met her gaze, her large brown eyes reflecting the living room light with the air of a kicked puppy and her frame curled even tighter into itself, Romy had to pull herself together. She moved what served as a stool towards the coffee table and rested her elbows on her knees, mimicking Ezia’s hunched posture. The latter followed every movement attentively, and Romy thought she saw her relax a little.

“If something bad happened,” she said more gently this time, “maybe I can help.”

Ezia hesitated. She looked down at her hands, flexing and unflexing them in a strange, anxious rhythm. Then suddenly, she looked up.

“I grew up a few hours from Montreal, in a little remote village. Not many people leave, so when I went off to study in the city, it kind of freaked them out, ”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Romy cut in.

Ezia paused briefly before continuing.

“The people in the village. Including my parents.”

Romy hadn’t grown up in a village. She’d grown up between London and the suburbs of Paris, with parents who were separated but still shared many things, chief among them, a gaze toward the countryside like kings eyeing their serfs. Romy genuinely wanted to be open to differences; it was part of what had driven her to go far away, to exile herself in Canada. To see new things, to experiment, to learn. So when Ezia mentioned that the village, an entire village, had their eyes on her, Romy tried to offer a small, reassuring smile to encourage her to go on, all while clutching her knees tightly. Keep an open mind.

“It’s hard for us to have kids,” Ezia said. “There aren’t many of us, and most pregnancies... well, best case, they’re stillborn.”

Romy’s nails dug into her jeans. The implication made her queasy. All that stuff about inbred villagers, it was just city-people nonsense, right? Surely she was misinterpreting. Stay open-minded.

“So yesterday, they were waiting for me. At home. They were waiting for me and my brothers. They’re the only other young people left in the village…”

Romy hung onto every word. Her fingers, like talons, clenched her knees so hard her knuckles turned white.

“...And they told me to pick one of them to, well,” she hesitated, “to bond with.”

That was it. Romy shot to her feet with a strangled gasp. Guilt crashed into her like a freight train, she’d yelled at her, when clearly Ezia had just been through something traumatic. Romy had four brothers herself, two older, two younger, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine the shock and disgust she’d feel in Ezia’s place.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you escape your incestuous village,” Romy said solemnly.

Ezia stared at her, stunned.

“What are you talking about?”

Romy met her gaze, confused.

“They want you to have kids with your own brothers. That’s incest! That’s disgusting!”

“Romy, I call them my brothers because we grew up together. We don’t share parents.”

“So what ? They still want you to have kids with them. They can’t make you do that!”

Ezia quickly regained her smile, and once again, Romy didn’t understand what was so funny. Still, she was willing to play the fool after yelling at her. She probably deserved it. Romy noticed with some satisfaction that Ezia’s shoulders had relaxed again, her arms stretched out behind her. She seemed much more at ease, perhaps a little too much, given the circumstances. What if this was some kind of cult ? A secluded community in the woods, where their actions and affections were dictated. She gave up entirely on the idea of opening her mind.

Strangely, Romy seemed more anxious than Ezia, who flopped onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. Her T-shirt rode up, revealing the tanned skin of her toned stomach. Did working out come with the whole cult package? Romy decided to press on.

“Seriously, Ezia, I’m going to help you get out of that place.”

The brunette let out a small laugh.

“I’m not leaving them. They’re my family. I just want them to know I’m pissed.”

Romy yawned dramatically, ending the conversation. 

If that was her final decision, then there was nothing more to say. Still, it worried her that the manipulation ran so deep she couldn’t even stay away for one night. Romy stepped up to the couch and waved her hands, signaling Ezia to move. With her usual agility, she sprang to her feet. She pushed the coffee table out of the way, nearly bumping into the small TV stand, then pulled a hidden tab beneath the couch frame. One small tug to get some momentum, and she unfolded the sofa bed. Ezia threw herself onto it, rolling across the mattress under Romy's skeptical gaze, who then went to grab a blanket from her bedroom.

Despite Ezia’s insistence on only wearing light clothes even in the cold (though, to be fair, Romy figured that was a common Canadian trait), her apartment was terribly insulated. That was mostly because the building dated back to before the 1950s, with old wooden floorboards and tiny ceiling cracks if you had a sharp eye. Still, Romy had a certain affection for her rundown little place (and the cheap rent). She rummaged through her wardrobe and came out holding a thick comforter, only to drop it when she saw Ezia curled up in her underwear among the cushions.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” she muttered, tossing the blanket blindly over the almost-naked body sprawled across her couch.

“Thanks!”

Romy turned away and headed back to her room, ready to change and give her overworked brain a few hours of rest. Her muscles were heavy from all the strain, and her vision blurred with exhaustion now and then. Still, something made her pause. She turned back toward Ezia’s back, who was currently wrestling with a pillow, oblivious to the weight of Romy's stare. Her eyes scanned her tanned skin, throat tightening. Smooth, seemingly flawless skin, well, if nature had been allowed to take its course.

The first thing she noticed was a scar, clearly recent, running from the top of her right trapezius down to the base of her spine. The wound was still edged with soft, pink skin. Ezia pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, covering first the dip of her lower back where Romy had spotted thin, long scars that only stood out because they were slightly darker. Then the white wave fell over her waist, carved as if by a sculptor’s hand, and Romy might’ve been jealous of her figure if her eyes weren’t locked on a curved mark, shaped like the bite of a large canine. Finally, the comforter settled around her shoulders with a satisfied sigh.

Romy, for her part, was anything but comfortable. She wanted to say something. Ask if it was her freaky cult that had done that to her. If she was still in pain. If Romy could offer her some cream. But the questions stuck to her tongue, unable to break the quiet breathing from the shape in front of her. She was afraid, afraid that Ezia would suddenly stop smiling, start crying or screaming. Or worse, get angry and leave, never speaking to her again. Truthfully, Romy feared crossing boundaries she didn’t yet know. 

So even though she wanted to help, to force Ezia to stay, even to call the cops if she had to, Romy instead stepped to the edge of the pullout couch, wrestled out of her jeans with her feet, and lay down as gently as possible. She placed a pillow between them to leave a bit of space, but even with the wall of feathers, her last sight before closing her eyes was Ezia’s dark hair.

***

Her sleep was so soft and restorative that, the next morning, Romy had a hard time opening her eyes. She pulled the comforter over her head to shield herself from the sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, but her nose caught a delicious scent that brought her senses back online. She heard the familiar sizzle of hot grease in a pan, and her stomach let out a low groan. Saliva filled her mouth, flashing her back to the bile that had risen in the elevator yesterday.

The elevator.  

The documents.  

The lab.

Her eyes snapped open like saucers and she sat up so fast she forgot to care about the sunlight. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” she muttered as she knocked pillows and blankets off in a mess she’d definitely regret later. Her eyes darted to the outlet and locked on her phone, still charging. She nearly dove for it, slipping off the bed in the process. The screen lit up to show the time. 8:30 AM.

“SHIT,” Romy shouted.

Immediately, a loud clatter of metal echoed through the otherwise quiet apartment. The sound was so sharp it made her groan, and her phone hit the floor as she clutched her ears. Every vibration of metal hit her like a piercing scream, and not even the quick footsteps of Ezia running toward her softened the blow.

“Why are you screaming?” the brunette asked, standing over her with her hands on her hips.

Romy’s attention snapped to Ezia, thankfully clothed, and the noise finally stopped. She looked around for her phone, grabbed it, and stared at the lock screen. Dozens of notifications. Emails, calls, and messages all from the same number. The emails, though, sealed her fate with the familiar address staring back at her ominously.

sleeplab.perception@gmail.gmail

“I was supposed to be back at the lab before 7:00. I overslept!” Romy whimpered, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t show up now after the mess I made.”

“Do you have to go ?”

“Not really. It’s mostly about them paying me.”

“Then don’t go. I made bacon.”

With that, Ezia returned to the kitchen.

Romy kept staring at her home screen, a knot in her stomach. The messages kept piling up, the pressure tangible. But instead of answering, she turned the phone off, set it on the floor, and got to work folding the sofa bed. She closed it, folded the comforter, and placed it on one of the many mismatched chairs in her living room, while Ezia set down two plates on the coffee table. It was only when she noticed a blue patch on the floor that Romy realized she’d forgotten to put her jeans back on. She pulled them on in record time, mumbling a quick thank you to Ezia, who had taken her place on the leather stool.

Romy sat down, still looking half-wrecked from her chaotic wake-up, and glanced at the plate in front of her, surprised by how simple it was. A single fried egg, a slice of toast, bacon, and a little pile of blueberries on the side. She looked up at Ezia.

“You went shopping?”

“I told you I was making breakfast. I always keep my promises,” she replied simply, biting into a strip of bacon.

Romy didn’t need convincing to dig in. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was, between puking at the university and biking in the cold, the smell of bacon had triggered a ravenous craving. Still, every time she looked at Ezia, she couldn’t stop thinking about those thick, raised scars that crossed her back. Romy wanted to ask the question that was burning on her tongue, but instead, she bit into her toast. Still, she couldn’t help herself.

“Do you want to talk about yesterday?”

Ezia looked up, alert. A trail of egg yolk ran down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand, making Romy grimace.

“Dunno. Not much to say.”

“So what are you going to do now? Run away?”

That earned a laugh from Ezia, under Romy's serious gaze.

“Of course not. It’s my community.”

“Your community tried to marry you off, though.”

“Yeah. But it’s tradition.”

“And the scars, are those traditions too?”

Romy instantly regretted the words. Not your business, she told herself. Not your business, Romy. Shut your mouth. She clenched her teeth. Ezia set down her fork, Romy had already abandoned hers long ago. Ezia stood in heavy silence, and Romy couldn’t stop herself from tracking her movements, all while avoiding her gaze. 

That’s when she realized just how intimidating Ezia really was. Her body was all lean muscle, powerful and fast, her gestures sharp but precise as she grabbed the shoes she’d left in a corner and slipped them on. Her face was unreadable, no emotion visible on her features. Her smile had disappeared the moment she opened the door and left without a word.

There, in the silence of the apartment. With the empty plate in front of her. The half-folded blanket off to the side.  

Romy dropped her head into her hands.  

Fuck.