9. Chapter 9
Wren
I spend hours curled up on Maya's couch, staring at the ceiling fan as it turns in lazy circles above me.
The blanket she gave me is soft and smells like lavender fabric softener, but it offers no comfort.
My mind won't stop racing, replaying every moment, every detail.
The flowers. The pendant. The card with my real name.
Maya's gentle snores drift from her bedroom. She insisted I take her bed, but I couldn't bear the thought of stealing her comfort after everything else I've taken from her tonight. Knowledge. Safety. Ignorance.
Every creak in the floorboards makes my heart stutter. Every shift in the shadows has me holding my breath. I'm not just afraid for myself anymore—I'm terrified for Maya. What if whoever left those flowers follows me here? What if they hurt her to get to me?
The thought sits like ice in my veins.
I can't stay. Not here. Not when my presence puts her in danger.
Moving silently, I gather my things and stuff them back into my backpack. I find a notepad in her kitchen drawer and write: Thank you. Not safe for you if I stay. Will message soon. Lock your doors. -W
I leave it propped against the coffee pot where she'll find it in the morning.
One last glance at her closed bedroom door, and I slip out, making sure the door locks behind me.
The night air is cool against my face as I hurry down the empty street. I fumble for my phone, fingers trembling slightly as I type a message to Lorna. I need advice—somewhere safe to go, somewhere with locked doors and discretion.
I’m sorry to bother you. Do you know of a secure place I can stay tonight? I tap send and keep walking, eyes scanning the darkened windows and quiet sidewalks.
The response is quick. Head to the Best Western Hotel. It's got good security. They have the work card on file. Message me when you're safe.
Relief washes over me. I adjust my course, heading towards the hotel. The promise of security cameras, locked doors, and a staff trained in discretion feels like a lifeline.
Once I arrive, the lobby is serene, the receptionist barely gives me a second glance when I let her know to put it on the work card. I make my way to the room, the weight of the day pressing down on me. The hotel room, with its simple bed, mini kitchenette, and private bathroom, feels like a haven.
I type a message to Lorna. I'm safe. Thank you.
Then I drop my bag by the door and collapse onto the bed without even taking off my shoes. The exhaustion of the day crashes over me in waves, and I finally surrender to it, letting darkness pull me under.
I dream of flowers growing through floorboards, of pendant necklaces tightening around my throat, of my brother's hands reaching for me through prison bars. I wake gasping, drenched in sweat, the gray light of dawn filtering through the curtains.
A soft knock at the door makes me jolt upright.
"Wren? You in there, honey?"
Lorna's voice. I exhale slowly and force myself off the bed, running a hand through my tangled pink hair before opening the door.
Lorna stands there in a vibrant kimono-style robe, her blue hair freshly styled. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in my appearance.
"Jesus, you look like hell warmed over," she says, but her tone is gentle. “Everything okay?"
I shake my head and step back, letting her into the room. She closes the door behind her and leans against it, waiting patiently while I collect myself enough to sign.
"Someone broke into my apartment," I sign, my hands shaking slightly. "Left flowers. Black lilies."
Lorna's expression darkens. "That's... concerning. Have you contacted the police?"
I shake my head again. What would I tell them? That someone left me expensive flowers? That they used a name I legally abandoned? That I'm afraid because my serial killer brother was just arrested hundreds of miles away?
"Okay," she says slowly. "So you needed somewhere safe to crash. I get that." She studies me for a moment, then adds, "You can stay here as long as you need. But maybe we should think about getting you some extra security. We can help you find a new apartment with better locks, at minimum."
I nod gratefully, relief washing through me. Lorna doesn't press for details I'm not ready to give. She just offers solutions. It's one of the things I've always appreciated about her.
"Actually," she continues, a slight smile curving her lips, "this might be perfect timing. Have you thought any more about the calendar shoot we discussed?"
The question catches me off guard. With everything that's happened, the calendar had completely slipped my mind. I hesitate, uncertain. Is it safe to commit to something like that when someone is clearly stalking me?
"I don't know," I sign slowly. "With everything going on... is it smart to put myself out there even more?"
Lorna pushes off from the door and comes to sit beside me on the bed. "Honey, you're already out there. The difference is whether you're out there on your terms or theirs."
I consider this, turning the thought over in my mind. She's not wrong. Whoever is following me already knows who I am, where I live, what I do. Maybe taking control of my image, surrounded by security and professionals, is exactly what I need right now.
"Besides," Lorna adds with a wink, "the calendar shoot comes with extra security. We take that stuff seriously—no phones allowed on set, background checks for everyone involved, NDAs all around. You'll probably be safer during that shoot than anywhere else."
Her confidence is infectious. The knot in my stomach begins to loosen, replaced by something that feels almost like determination.
I watch Lorna’s features as my hands form the reply: “Okay, I’ll do it.
” The moment I finish, something seismic passes through the air.
Her smile detonates. Her eyes crinkle, and her shoulders drop in this unmistakable everything’s-gonna-be-fucking-great way.
For a second, I feel like a kid winning a toy at a claw machine; half relieved, half stunned that it worked.
She claps her hands together. “That’s fantastic!
Honestly, I may have already texted the designer about your shoot after we last spoke.
The set crew’s obsessed with your Wasteland Chronicles idea and they are practically begging for an excuse to build something post-apocalyptic now.
You should see the sketch-ups—they’re working overtime to get it ready for you asap.
” She’s up from the bed again, already in motion.
“I’ll have wardrobe pull anything that matches your in-game skins you showed me.
They even found replica weapons—foam, but they look real enough on camera.
” She throws me a sly look. “You’ll be more ‘you’ than ever. ”
I want to laugh at the transparency of her enthusiasm, but there’s a weird comfort in it.
Lorna’s always so open, so unashamed. She wants me to succeed, because it means she succeeds.
She wants me safe, because it means her business is safe.
But she also, in a way I can’t quite articulate, genuinely cares if I’m happy. Or at least, if I’m not miserable.
I roll my eyes, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. The idea of bringing Wasteland Chronicles to life—of stepping into that world physically instead of just virtually—sends a thrill through me that temporarily drowns out the fear.
"But in the meantime," Lorna says, standing. "Get some rest. Use the shower. Order some room service. We'll talk about the details later."
She heads for the door, then pauses, turning back with a thoughtful expression.
"You know, we usually bring in professional talent for these shoots, but if there's someone specific you'd like to work with, we can make that happen.
Any particular subscribers you've got chemistry with?
It adds authenticity when there's a real connection. "
The question triggers an immediate image in my mind: WrathSpawn and HexedOut. The voices in my headset. The teammates who've had my back through countless digital battles. The men I've never met but somehow trust.
It's a ridiculous thought. They're just gamers who play with me occasionally. They have no idea who I really am. Instead my mind turns to my subscribers, people who know Vanta.
"I might have someone in mind," I sign hesitantly. "Two someones, actually."
Lorna raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do tell."
"There are two subscribers," I sign. "ObsidianWolf and NeedleAndVice. They've been following me for a while. They might be... interesting."
"Interesting how?" Lorna asks, a knowing smile spreading across her face.
I hesitate, trying to find the right words to explain the strange pull I feel toward these two subscribers. "There's something about them... they're different from the others. More respectful. More... present. When they're in my chat, it feels like they're really seeing me, not just the fantasy."
Lorna's smile turns knowing, her eyes sparkling with understanding.
"Honey, I get it better than most. Being drawn to multiple people isn't as uncommon as society makes it out to be.
" She twirls a strand of electric blue hair around her finger thoughtfully.
"I've been in a polyamorous relationship for years now.
So say no more," Lorna chuckles. "Send them private invitations.
We'll keep your identity secret, of course—just tell them Vanta has specifically requested their presence for a special shoot. Men love feeling chosen."
After she leaves, I sit for a long time, staring at the wall. What have I just agreed to? Am I really about to invite two complete strangers to participate in a photoshoot based solely on their online personas? It's reckless. Impulsive. Potentially dangerous.
And yet, something about it feels right. Like taking back control in a small way. Like choosing my own danger instead of having it thrust upon me.
I pull out my laptop and log into the Behind the Lens system. The interface is sleek and professional, designed to maintain both security and anonymity. I navigate to the private messaging section and draft two identical notes:
*Vanta cordially invites you to participate in an exclusive calendar photoshoot for Behind the Lens.
The theme is Video Game Fantasy, and your presence has been specifically requested by the performer.
Full confidentiality guaranteed. Potential reward for participation.
Please respond with your interest and availability. *
I stare at the screen for several minutes, my finger hovering over the send button. This is either the best idea I've ever had or the worst. There's no middle ground.
I think of the flowers in my apartment. The pendant with my real name. The walls closing in around me as my carefully constructed life begins to crumble.
Maybe it's time to stop running and start choosing.
I hit send.
The messages disappear into the digital ether, two invitations to strangers who might actually be the only people I trust right now.
I close my laptop and curl up on the bed, suddenly exhausted again. As I drift back to sleep, I wonder what they'll look like. If they'll accept. If they'll recognize me somehow, despite the mask and the wig and all the careful barriers I've built.
And for the first time in days, the thought doesn't terrify me.
It almost feels like hope.