CHAPTER 1
Riven
This Is How I Disappear - My Chemical Romance
Natural daylight blends with the artificial glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft, muted light across my loft.
The bathroom is still thick with steam, my glass of synthetic orange juice rests on the counter—no real fruit in it, obviously.
In this city, real fruit, meat, or anything that isn't synthetic doesn't cost just an arm or a leg—It costs both.
Despite going on with my routine I usually do before going to work, the nightmare still clings to my mind like a fucking leech.
I sigh.
Why did I have to see that again? It's been eleven years.
I was twelve.
Why do I still have—I roughly splash cold water on my face.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, my hair still damp from the shower.
I grab a towel with more force than necessary, hastily drying it off before tying up my hair into a messy bun before brushing my teeth.
The thing with my hair is that it's painfully ordinary.
It's straight, I don't have bangs, and I'm a middle-part kind of woman.
I wanted to cut it into a bob not that long ago, but then I remembered what I looked like the last time—Like I had a fucking helmet on.
My comm suddenly vibrates across the bathroom counter with an insistent buzz.
Its transparent screen lights up, projecting my group chat with my friends upright into the air—DEGENERATES.
I groan and roll my eyes, pausing what I'm doing.
Muttering under my breath, I snatch the comm off the counter.
I spit out the last traces of the disgusting menthol-flavored synthetic toothpaste, rinse my mouth, and get dressed.
A few minutes later, I step into the lobby of my building.
“Morning, Miss Laordie.” The building manager smiles at me and bows respectfully as I pass, I return the gesture with a small nod of my head.
He's a tall man with graying hair, probably in his mid-forties, and he's always smiling.
At first, when I bought my loft, I thought he was just doing his job.
Sometimes, when I come home late or completely drunk, we end up talking for a while then he walks me all the way to my door, making sure I get home safely.
“Morning, Jacob. I hope Nya and the kids are doing okay.” I smile back.
Not the kind of real smile I give Jules and Charlie, it’s softer and more polite.
“Yes, they are.” He nods again “Thank you, Miss Laordie."
I step outside only to find Charlie already bouncing on the balls of her feet, grey eyes sparkling with anticipation.
For what? The fuck do I know.
She's always been like this—bouncing around, teasing everyone, laughing at everything, and being ridiculously sensitive.
Her long black hair falls around her shoulders, the difference between us, is that she has two white streaks framing her face, making her look like she walked straight out of some chaotic underground fashion campaign.
“Morning, grumpy head!” Charlie says immediately.
“You’re too loud before coffee Charlie… and leave her alone.” Jules nudges her with an elbow. “You look tired. Don't you own makeup?" There's a faint smirk pulling at her lips.
I glare at Jules.
“Very funny,” I scoff, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I slept like shit last night.”
Her long dark brown hair is perfectly brushed, her eyes are calm but quietly amused.
“Fuck both of you. Wanna see if I can rearrange your faces?” I roll my eyes and start walking.
Charlie gasps dramatically, and Jules punches my shoulder.
I chuckle softly.
“So,” I say as I head toward the district where my tattoo studio Nocturne is, “What's the plan for breakfast? Please tell me we're not getting synthetic coffee. That stuff smells awful.”
I grimace.
“If we are, I'm ripping your tongues out.”
“Oh, don't be like that, Riv!” Charlie says, waving a dismissive hand. “The coffee in Jill’s and Co is actually good.”
She's practically drooling already, probably at the thought of it when Jules snaps her out of her fantasy.
“You're unbelievable,” She shakes her head in disbelief “but we're absolutely not going, we’re late for opening the studio."
I nod satisfied, Charlie pouts but don’t argue.
During the walk, the girls keep chatting, but I barely listen, I keep looking around despite knowing this street too well—I walk it every day.
The neon lights and holograms add an edge I hate, it’s too bright, too artificial.
It’s always impressive to see the drones watch us every second.
Always hovering.
Always watching.
Preventing crime or at least, that's what they claim, whether it's true or not, I honestly don't care enough to find out.
I can't escape where I was born but I can escape my family, and everything their status comes with.
Charlie and Jules keep talking about the appointments lined up at my studio.
They both work there with me, for me.
Jules is the piercer—calm, meticulous, and always focused while Charlie is the receptionist, always smiling, bright, the kind of person people instantly warm to.
I'm the tattoo artist.
One of the last people who still drives a needle through skin instead of relying on skin printers.
And strangely enough, people still want it done the traditional way.
A lot of them.
Stepping into the tattoo studio feels like entering another world, hidden away from the noise, the artificial glow, and everything that makes up Kairo-9's fake reality.
I designed it myself—black-paneled ceilings stretch overhead while candlelit chandeliers cast a warm golden glow over dark wood, antique frames, creeping vines, and forgotten relics, giving the space a sacred, intimate, almost ritualistic feel.
Heavy shadows fill every corner, softened only by flickering candlelight and the low murmur of conversation.
Like every tattoo, every piercing, every experience created here carries a story meant to outlive the moment the needle touches skin.
People get tattoos to commemorate something they lost or love, or simply because they want to personalize their bodies.
And I’m all for it.
Charlie is already at reception, cleaning or organizing some shit behind the desk. Jules' focus is unwavering as she pierces a client's tongue.
I fidget with the silver rings on my fingers, slowly spinning in my chair, my face tilted toward the ceiling.
I can't stop thinking about that nightmare.
That memory.
Why now? I've dreamed about it before but this time, it didn't feel like a dream.
More like I was living it all over again.
“You're going to burn a hole through that ceiling if you keep staring at it like it owes you money, Riven,” Charlie says. “Your one o'clock appointment will be here any minute.”
She grins.
“And he's cute,” she sings, dragging out the u with an exaggerated wink.
I grunt and straight myself in my chair, shooting a look at her.
“Charlie.” My voice dropping to a threat and hidden amusement "No. Plus, I have a boyfriend. Remember?"
“Yeah, yeah. Liam,” Charlie sighs dramatically. “Boring man, really.”
“So what?” I lean back in my chair making it groan under my weight “Maybe he is a little. But he’s nice and gentle.”
“Yeah, and yet, you should be with someone who brings a little spice into your life.” She pauses, a mischievous grin spreading across her face and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper “or, add the spice yourself.”
I throw a box of tissues at her, she dodges it with a laugh.
Still grinning, she raises both hands in surrender and backs toward her reception counter.
Being smothered has never been my thing. Still, I let him fuss over me, it's easier than risking his feelings.
I like playing with his silver-white hair when we're lying together—it's soft, and it smells good like sweet cotton candy and honey.
The sex is good, gentle. He treats me like I'm something precious.
He loves me.
There's no reason not to be happy.
I'm happy with him. Really, I am.