A red slushie machine hummed and churned behind the counter of QuickStop, its contents swirling in hypnotic crimson spirals. Ava McKnight stood transfixed, watching the slow rotation of ice and syrup as it moved in endless circles—like blood swirling down a drain. Her hand unconsciously moved to her palm, fingers tracing the outline of the bandage there as memories flickered at the edges of her consciousness.
Red. So much red. Blood spreading across the pavement, a body shielding hers even as the light faded from familiar eyes. A strange figure emerging from the shadows, taking her wounded hand, and—
"Ava? Hello? Earth to Ava!"
She blinked, the memory dissolving as Wanda's voice cut through her trance. Her coworker stood beside her, keys jingling in one hand, the other waving in front of Ava's face.
"Sorry," Ava muttered, rubbing her eyes. "Zoned out for a second."
Wanda's expression softened with concern. "More than a second. You've been staring at that slushie machine for five minutes. I've been trying to tell you your shift's over."
"Oh." Ava glanced at the clock—6:05 PM. She'd technically been free to leave since six. "Thanks."
"You okay?" Wanda asked, lowering her voice even though the store was empty. "You've been... I don't know, different lately. More distant."
Ava forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just tired. Haven't been sleeping great."
Wanda seemed about to say more when the electronic chime announced a customer. A teenage girl with long dark hair entered, violin case clutched in one hand. She waved at Wanda with a familiar ease.
"Hey, Ms. Wanda! Ready when you are."
"Be right there, Sophia," Wanda called back before turning to Ava. "My violin student. Teaching her some basics while her mom's at work." She hesitated. "Listen, Ava, if you ever need to talk..."
"I'm fine," Ava insisted, already removing her nametag. "Really. Go teach. I'll see you tomorrow."
Wanda squeezed her shoulder briefly before turning to greet Sophia. As Ava gathered her things from the break room, she overheard fragments of their conversation—something about finger positions and bow technique. The easy rapport between them made Ava's chest tighten with an emotion she couldn't quite name. Loss, maybe. Or longing for a normalcy that felt increasingly out of reach.
Outside, the evening air carried the metallic tang of an approaching storm. Ava pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders and started the walk to her apartment. The route took her past a towering billboard featuring Victor Stigoli's practiced smile and campaign slogan: "A Safer Metroplex Starts Now." She scowled up at it, quickening her pace.
Her neighborhood existed in the liminal space between Metroplex's gleaming city center and its neglected outskirts. Here, the Y2K-revival aesthetic that dominated the city's architecture took on a worn, lived-in quality—chrome facades dulled by weather, bubble windows repaired with duct tape, holographic advertisements flickering with outdated projectors.
The walk to her apartment building took exactly twelve minutes. Ava counted each one, focusing on her breathing, on the rhythm of her footsteps—anything to keep her mind from wandering back to the swirling red and the memories it stirred.
The apartment was empty when she arrived, Maya's note on the refrigerator explaining her absence: Working late on interview prep. Back around 9. Don't wait up! - M
Ava dropped her bag by the door and stood motionless in the center of the living room. The electricity bill was due tomorrow. She'd forgotten to pick up more coffee. Her shift tomorrow started at 6 AM, which meant another night of maybe five hours sleep if she was lucky. The kitchen faucet was still dripping despite the new washer she'd installed last weekend.
Her eyes drifted to the wall calendar where she'd marked her various shifts in red pen, bills in blue. Three more paychecks until rent was due again. She'd been picking up extra shifts—anything to stay busy, to exhaust herself enough that sleep might come without dreams. Maya kept telling her to slow down, that they were managing okay financially, but standing still meant thinking, and thinking was the enemy.
She moved through the apartment, automatically adjusting the thermostat down two degrees to save on heating. The empty chair at the kitchen table seemed to accuse her of something she couldn't name. The collection of sneakers by the door had one pair that hadn't been worn in months. Someone should probably donate those. Maybe next week.
Mechanically, she made herself a sandwich, ate half of it, and abandoned the rest on the counter. She showered, changed into sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt that might have once been Michael's, and dropped onto the couch. The remote lay just out of reach, but she couldn't summon the energy to grab it. Instead, she stared at the blank TV screen, seeing only her own distorted reflection.
Her fingers moved to her palm, peeling back the flesh-colored bandage that covered the thorn. It sat there, embedded in her skin like it had grown from within—a small black spine no longer than her thumbnail but impossible to remove. The skin around it was slightly raised, with faint purple veins extending outward like roots.
Ava traced its outline, feeling the strange warmth it radiated. Six months, and she still had no idea what it really was or where it had come from. Only that it had appeared the night Michael died, and that when she made it bleed—when she pressed hard enough to draw her own blood—she... changed.
The first time had been an accident, during a nightmare. She'd clutched her hand so tightly in her sleep that her nails broke the skin around the thorn. The transformation had been terrifying, painful, confusing—waking to find herself crouched on the ceiling, her body twisted into something alien and predatory. It had taken hours for the change to reverse, and afterward, she'd convinced herself it was just part of the nightmare.
Until it happened again. And again.
Now she controlled it—mostly. But the thing she became, this creature, this other self... sometimes it felt more real than Ava McKnight. Sometimes it felt like she was the disguise, and the beast was her true form, waiting just beneath the surface to emerge.
Her eyes grew heavy as she contemplated the thorn, her body succumbing to the exhaustion she'd been fighting for days. As sleep claimed her, her last conscious thought was of Michael's face—not bloodied and broken as she so often saw it in her nightmares, but smiling, whole, alive.
The dream came as it always did—fragmented, disorienting, more sensation than narrative.
She was running through an endless labyrinth of chrome and glass, her reflection multiplying infinitely in every surface. Behind her, shadows pursued, formless yet threatening. Ahead, a glow pulsed—blackish-purple, beckoning. The harder she ran toward it, the further it seemed to recede.
Ava...
A voice called her name—Michael's voice, but not quite. There was something else in it, something ancient and inhuman.
Ava... embrace it... become...
The shadows closed in. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. And then, as panic reached its peak, her skin began to change. The blackish-purple aura engulfed her, her fingers elongating into razor-sharp claws, her teeth sharpening to points.
In the dream, she turned to face her pursuers, no longer afraid but hungry. Predatory. Powerful. The shadows recoiled as she advanced, her claws slashing through them like they were made of smoke. She roared, the sound more beast than human, and felt a savage joy surge through her veins.
Protector... avenger... become...
The voice was closer now, all around her, within her. She looked down at her transformed body, fascinated and horrified by the sleek, deadly creature she'd become. This was wrong. This was right. This was—
"Ava? Hey, wake up."
Maya's voice broke through the dream, pulling Ava back to consciousness. She opened her eyes to find her roommate standing over her, handbag still slung over her shoulder, concern etched on her face.
"You were making weird noises in your sleep," Maya said, setting her bag down. "Bad dream?"
Ava sat up, disoriented. "Yeah. I don't remember much of it."
Maya eyed her skeptically but didn't press. "You can't go out in those sweats." Her tone shifted, brightening artificially. "Time to trade Michael's old shirt for something with a little more style."
"What? Why?" Ava frowned, still trying to shake off the lingering tendrils of the dream.
"Because," Maya said, already heading toward her own room, "we're going out tonight." She turned in the doorway, fixing Ava with a look that brooked no argument. "No excuses this time. You've been hiding in this apartment for too long." Her expression softened. "It's what Michael would want, Ava. For you to start living again."
The mention of Michael's name hung in the air between them. For a moment, Ava considered refusing, retreating to her room, to the safety of isolation. But the dream lingered at the edges of her consciousness—the predator within her, waiting. Maybe Maya was right. Maybe she needed this.
"Fine," she conceded, standing. "Where are we going?"
Maya's smile was triumphant. "Clubbing. There's this new place called CIRCUIT that everyone's talking about." She disappeared into her room, calling back over her shoulder, "Wear something hot! We leave in thirty!"
Alone again, Ava touched her palm, feeling the thorn pulse beneath her skin. One night out couldn't hurt. One night pretending to be normal, pretending the darkness inside her didn't exist. Just one night.
She headed to her room to change, unaware that by morning, everything would be different.