Chapter 1 #2
I press the pin into my fingertip—left hand, ring finger, because it's closest to my heart and furthest from practical—and watch three perfect droplets of blood well up.
One. Two. Three.
Fuck. Three. Uneven. Wrong.
I squeeze out a fourth droplet, breathing easier as it joins the others.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Better.
The blood falls onto the pink wax seal, spreading slightly before drying into a dark rust stain. My commitment. My promise. My sacrifice to whoever the fuck is on the other end of these letters.
"Does he know?" I ask, mostly to myself. "Does S.W. know that every letter I send has my blood on it? That I've been doing this for five years? That it's the only thing keeping me tethered to something resembling humanity?"
"Insufficient data to—"
"I know, I know. You don't know shit." I pop my finger into my mouth, tasting copper and salt. "I just… I wrote in this one that I want his name. Is that too much? Too desperate? Too—"
"You're overthinking."
"I'm always overthinking. My brain doesn't have an off switch."
"Have you considered medication?"
"Have you considered shutting the fuck up?"
A pause. Then: "No."
Despite everything—despite the blood and the madness and the crushing weight of existing in this place—I laugh. Real laughter this time, not the manic edge that makes people uncomfortable.
"You're my favorite disaster, Ro."
"I'm an artificial intelligence construct."
"Exactly. No expectations. No disappointments. No watching you die."
The laughter cuts off abruptly.
Silence fills the space, heavy and thick.
Shit. Shit. Trauma dump. Retreat. Redirect.
I shake my head sharply, pink hair whipping across my face, and shove the sealed letter into my tiny black bag—canvas, reinforced stitching, just big enough for essentials. Which in the Ruthless sector means: letter, knife, emergency protein bar, lock picks, and whatever dignity I have left.
Spoiler: not much.
"Okay," I announce, forcing brightness back into my voice. "Time to get dressed for our ruthless adventure to the mailbox. Because nothing says 'I'm mentally stable' like treating mail delivery like a tactical mission."
"You should treat it like a tactical mission. The post office is in contested territory."
"See? Even my AI is paranoid. That's how you know shit's bad."
I move to my "closet"—a corner with clothes hanging from exposed pipes—and start the process of transforming from "girl having a breakdown alone" to "girl having a breakdown in public."
First: the ballet shoes.
My hands tremble slightly as I lift them from their hook.
Custom-made, or as custom as you can get when you're stealing materials and sewing them yourself during manic episodes.
One shoe carnelian red—the color of fresh blood, of beginnings written in violence.
The other dusty rose pink—softer, prettier, the ghost of who I used to be.
Mismatched.
Like everything about me.
I sit on the concrete floor, legs extending in a perfect en avant position because muscle memory is stronger than trauma, and begin the ritual of wrapping the ribbons.
Satin strips wind around my ankles, up my calves, crisscrossing in the pattern I learned when I was seven years old and still believed the world was beautiful.
Right shoe first. Red. Blood.
Eight loops around the ankle. Even number. Safe.
Left shoe second. Pink. Ghost.
Eight loops mirroring the first. Even number. Safe.
I tie them off and stand, testing my weight on the reinforced pointe platforms. Pain radiates up through my toes—familiar, grounding, mine. The kind of hurt I choose, unlike all the hurt that's been inflicted.
Next: the outfit.
I shimmy into fishnet ombre jean shorts—black fading to gray, shredded in strategic places—and pair them with a black bandeau top that shows off the constellation of bruises across my ribs.
Some from training. Some from fighting. Some from that thing three weeks ago that we don't talk about because talking means remembering which means spiraling.
The mirror—cracked, mounted to the wall with duct tape and spite—shows me my reflection.
Porcelain skin. Pink hair with silver-white roots. And my eyes.
God, my eyes.
Heterochromatic genetics courtesy of my mother's fucked-up DNA—one blue like summer sky, one green like toxic poison. They don't match, just like the shoes, just like my brain chemistry, just like every goddamn thing about my existence.
The teardrop tattoo near the corner of my left eye — the green one— sits like a permanent bruise.
A beauty mark in ink. A reminder that I've killed people and probably will again.
Sometimes I switch it up with fake teardrop tattoos to give some sort of illusion…
as if anyone would notice the difference if they dared survived my blades long enough to care.
I lean closer, studying my face with clinical detachment. When did I start looking so hollow? When did the dark circles become permanent? When did my smile become something that looks more like bared teeth?
When your parents were slaughtered in front of you, the logical part of my brain supplies helpfully. When you watched them beg. When you were powerless. When you became this.
"Shut up," I whisper to my reflection.
She doesn't listen. She never does.
I grab the lip gloss from the desk—cherry flavored, sticky-sweet, another stolen item because everything good in the Ruthless sector is stolen—and swipe it across my lips. The color is obscene against my pale face. Too bright. Too alive.
Perfect.
My gaze travels down to my arms, to the tattoo sleeve that wraps around my left forearm and bicep. Flowers—roses, lilies, carnations—tangled with thorns that draw blood from stems. And winding through it all: a snake.
Not just any snake.
A viper.
The symbol of my family legacy. The Eastman bloodline. Old money built on older secrets, on botanical poisons and political machinations, on knowing exactly which pressure point would make someone stop breathing.
The viper represents vengeance. Silent. Patient. One fatal strike.
That's me now. That's what I've become.
I trace the ink with one finger, feeling the slight raise of scar tissue beneath. I got this tattoo during my first month in the Ruthless sector, sitting in an underground parlor while a man with more scars than skin asked if I was sure.
I was sure.
I'm always sure about destruction.
It's healing I'm uncertain about.
My dual blades come next—matched daggers with black handles wrapped in leather, curved edges sharp enough to split atoms. I've killed three people with these. Maybe four. The last one gets fuzzy because I was having an episode and adrenaline makes memory weird.
I slide them into the sheaths built into my backpack—custom modifications because standard bags don't accommodate weaponry—and feel the satisfying click as they lock into place.
"Locked and loaded," I announce, doing a little spin. My toe taps against the floor in rapid succession—tap tap tap tap, four times, even number, safe—before I force myself still.
Ro's voice filters through the room's speakers: "Weapons check complete. Exits mapped. Threat assessment calculated at moderate-high. You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Can't I be both?"
"You are, in fact, both."
I grab the miniature Aphrodite unit from my desk—a small robotic sphere about the size of a golf ball, matte black with a subtle pink LED ring that pulses with her processing rhythms. Custom-built during another manic episode, she's my constant companion. My only friend, really, aside from Knox.
And maybe S.W., if he's still alive.
Please be alive, I think, clutching the letter in my bag. Please don't be another death I have to carry.
I loop the thin chain around my neck, letting Ro's sphere settle against my sternum. The metal is cold against my skin, grounding.
"How do I look?" I ask, turning toward where I imagine Ro's main processing unit would be if she were corporeal.
"Like a femme fatale designed by a committee of circus performers and serial killers."
"So, perfect."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
I take a deep breath—two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out—and move toward the door. My hand hovers over the handle, hesitating.
The Ruthless sector of Hard Knot Academy is exactly what it sounds like: a death sentence dressed up as education, where survival is currency and weakness gets you killed. Or worse.
I've been trapped here for three years. Three years of fighting, fucking, bleeding, and trying desperately not to become the monster everyone expects me to be.
Spoiler: I became the monster anyway.
It was easier than staying human.
The post office is seven blocks away through contested territory, past the fighting rings where Alphas break each other for sport, through the market where stolen goods change hands faster than STDs, across the plaza where they hang bodies from the fountain as warnings.
It's a fucking war zone.
And I'm about to walk through it in ballet shoes and a smile that's more threat than invitation.
"Ro," I say quietly, my voice losing its manic edge for just a moment. "What are the odds I make it to the post office and back without incident?"
A pause. Then: "Insufficient data to calculate accurately. However, given your history, I'd estimate approximately—"
"Never mind. I don't want to know."
"Probably wise."
I pull open the door, letting the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor spill into my room. The scent of the Ruthless sector hits me immediately: blood, concrete, ozone from faulty wiring, and beneath it all, the sharp tang of Omega distress.
So many broken girls in this place.
So many of us who survived things we shouldn't have.
My fingers find the letter in my bag, holding it like a talisman. Like proof that somewhere out there, someone knows my name and hasn't run screaming yet.
I step into the corridor, pink hair bright against institutional gray walls, mismatched eyes catching the flickering lights, ballet shoes silent on concrete.
A giggle escapes—sharp, slightly unhinged, mine.
Two girls flatten themselves against the wall as I pass, their eyes wide with recognition. They know who I am. What I am.
The crazy bitch with pink hair and a body count.
The ballerina who dances in blood.
The girl who writes letters to ghosts.
I wink at them. They flinch.
Delicious.
"Ro," I murmur, quiet enough that only she can hear through the receiver against my chest. "I know I'm probably more insane than functional at this point."
"Correct."
"And I know that writing letters to someone I've never met, whose name I don't even know, is objectively unhinged behavior."
"Also correct."
"But he's the only person who doesn't look at me like I'm about to explode. Even if it's just words on paper. Even if he never writes back."
"Seraphine—"
"He makes me feel less alone." My voice cracks slightly.
I clear my throat, forcing the brightness back.
"In this ruthless world where breathing is a privilege and kindness is a liability, S.W.
is… he's proof that maybe I'm not entirely a monster.
That maybe there's still something worth saving under all this chaos. "
Silence.
Then, softer than I've ever heard her: "Then we ensure the letter reaches him."
I nod, blinking back the wetness in my mismatched eyes.
Not crying. Not today. Today we deliver mail and pretend we're fine.
The exit looms ahead—heavy metal door separating my corridor from the main sector arteries. Beyond it: violence, chaos, the constant hum of danger that never quite fades.
I adjust my bag. Check my blades. Count my breaths.
Two, four, eight.
Even numbers. Safe.
My hand finds the door handle, and I pause for just one more second. One more moment of peace before I step into the nightmare.
Behind me, my room sits empty—concrete box with an aerial ring, broken mirror, and bloodstained letters piled in a corner. Evidence of my madness. Proof of my survival.
Ahead: the Ruthless sector in all its terrible glory.
And somewhere at the end of this journey: a mailbox I earned through blood and pain, and the faint, desperate hope that maybe—maybe—S.W. will write back.
I pull open the door.
Noise crashes over me: screams, laughter, the wet sound of fists on flesh. The symphony of violence that is my home.
I step through, pink hair bright as a target, smile sharp as my blades, letter pressed against my heart.
"Shall we enjoy this ruthless adventure together, dear friend?" I murmur, fingers brushing Ro's sphere around my neck.
My only friend in this ruthless world...