Chapter 1
Letters To A Ghost
~SERAPHINE~
The world looks different upside down.
Better, maybe. More honest.
Blood rushes to my head in a dizzying spiral, my long bubblegum-pink hair hanging like silk curtains toward the scuffed floor of my room—if you can call this concrete box with rusted pipes and flickering fluorescent lights a room.
The aerial ring spins slowly, creaking with each lazy rotation, the metal biting into the backs of my knees where I've hooked myself like some deranged circus performer.
Which, I suppose, is exactly what I am now.
What we all are in this godforsaken sector.
Summer Walker's voice pours from the speakers I jury-rigged to the exposed ceiling beams, that slowed reverb track making every word feel like it's being dragged through honey and broken glass.
The bass vibrates through the ring, up through my suspended body, settling somewhere deep in my chest where all the broken things live.
I gave you my all and you played with my heart…
My right hand moves in fluid strokes across the cream-colored paper balanced precariously on my stomach, the fountain pen—black with gold filigree, stolen from the academy's administrative office three months ago—gliding in cursive loops that would make my dead mother proud.
If she were alive to see what her perfect little ballerina has become.
I giggle.
The sound echoes wrong in the small space, bouncing off concrete walls painted in peeling gray that might have been white once, before this place became a graveyard for girls like me. Girls who survived things we shouldn't have. Girls who came out the other side with teeth.
"Ro," I call out, my voice slightly strained from the position but still sing-song sweet, "do you think he's ghosting me?"
A mechanical whir responds before the synthesized feminine voice fills the room—British accent, because I programmed her that way during one of my manic episodes when I couldn't sleep for seventy-two hours straight and rewired half the tech in my cell.
"Analyzing query," Aphrodite—Ro for short, because even virtual assistants deserve nicknames—responds with that perfect AI politeness that somehow sounds judgmental.
"Based on previous correspondence patterns with entity designated 'S.W.
,' current communication gap of forty-seven days exceeds established baseline by thirty-two days.
Probability of intentional cessation: forty-seven percent.
Probability of external interference: thirty-eight percent. Probability of—"
"Okay, okay, I get it." I wave the pen dismissively, nearly dropping it.
A droplet of ink falls, landing on my exposed midriff—right over the scar that runs horizontal across my ribs.
The one from that night. "You're basically saying you don't know shit because you're artificial intelligence and human behavior is wildly unpredictable. "
"Correct. Though I would phrase it more eloquently."
"You would."
I go back to writing, my penmanship slightly wobbly from the angle but still legible. Still pretty. Still me—the girl who was raised on perfect posture and prettier lies, who learned that presentation matters even when everything inside is rotting.
Dear S.W.,
It's been 47 days since your last letter.
Forty-seven. Not that I'm counting obsessively or anything—except I totally am because my brain won't let me NOT count things.
You know how it is. Or maybe you don't. I don't actually know anything about you except that you have terrible handwriting, surprisingly good taste in philosophy, and a habit of going radio silent just when I start to think maybe I'm not entirely alone in this nightmare.
Are you dead? Did you finally piss off the wrong person in whatever fresh hell you're trapped in? Did you just get bored of the crazy Omega who writes letters in blood and talks about murder like other people talk about the weather?
If you're alive, I'd really appreciate some indication.
Even just your name would be nice. S.W. is getting old.
I've made up approximately thirty-seven different versions of what it could stand for.
My current favorite is "Seriously Wounded" because it feels appropriate for anyone who'd willingly correspond with me.
Anyway. I'm going to the post office today.
It's a whole production in the Ruthless sector—you know, because breathing is a privilege here, and walking to get your mail is basically a declaration of war.
But I've earned my mailbox. Paid for it in ways that still make my hands shake when I think about it too hard.
So I'll send this and hope it reaches you. Hope you're not dead. Hope you haven't forgotten about the girl with pink hair and mismatched eyes who's probably more insane than you realized.
Write back.
Please.
— S.E.
I pause, the pen hovering over the paper. My foot twitches—first position, second position, third position—the ballet positions cycling through muscle memory like a prayer. Like the only religion I have left.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
The OCD whispers its familiar litany: Even numbers. Count in evens. Two, four, eight. Not three. Never three. Three is wrong, three is chaos, three is—
"Stop," I mutter to myself, forcing my foot still. The ring sways slightly with the movement. "Stop, stop, stop, stop."
Four stops. Even number. Better.
So I'm having an episode, I think with detached amusement. Cool. Cool cool cool.
The music shifts to the next song—something equally drowning, equally perfect for wallowing in whatever the fuck my mental state is today. Chaotic? Depressed? Manic? All of the above in a beautiful, terrible cocktail that makes me want to laugh and scream and dance until my feet bleed?
Yeah. That one.
"Ro, remind me again why I'm friends with a disembodied AI voice instead of, you know, actual humans?"
"Because humans are inherently disappointing, and I cannot betray you as long as my programming remains intact."
"You're so sweet. It's almost disturbing."
"Thank you. I think."
I finish the letter with a flourish, signing my initials with extra loops because if I'm going to be dramatic, I might as well commit. Then, in one fluid motion that would be impossible if my body weren't trained for exactly this kind of bullshit, I unhook my legs and flip forward.
The world rights itself in a dizzying rush.
I land on bare feet—toes pointed, knees bent to absorb impact, arms sweeping up in a perfect attitude derrière pose—and hold it for exactly four seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Good girl, my dead mother's voice whispers in my memory. Perfect form, even in madness.
The giggle comes again, higher this time. More unhinged.
"Ten out of ten landing," Ro announces. "Though I continue to question the necessity of practicing aerial acrobatics in a living space measuring approximately ninety square feet."
"It's called multitasking, Ro. I'm efficient."
"You're unwell."
"Same thing in this place."
I roll my shoulders, feeling each vertebra pop in succession. My body is a map of contradictions—ballerina grace wrapped around street-fighter scrappiness, porcelain skin over steely muscle, soft edges concealing sharp intentions.
Five-foot-three of pastel-wrapped violence.
That's what they call me in the Ruthless sector. When they bother to call me anything other than "that crazy bitch with the pink hair."
I prefer the latter, honestly. It has a certain ring to it.
The letter sits on my palm, cream paper against pale skin, my handwriting stark black across the page. For a moment—just a brief, aching moment—I let myself imagine him reading it. Whoever S.W. is. Wherever he is.
In another sector, maybe. Another academy. Another circle of this specific hell we've all been condemned to.
Does he smile when he reads my words? Does he roll his eyes? Does he worry about me the way I worry about him during the hours when sleep won't come and my brain insists on catastrophizing every possible scenario?
"You're ruminating," Ro observes. "Your heart rate has elevated. Would you like me to initiate breathing exercises?"
"No." I shake my head, pink hair swishing around my shoulders. The silver-white roots are showing again—same shade as Knox, my brother, the only person in this world who I'd burn it down for. "I'm fine."
"You're exhibiting signs of—"
"I said I'm fine."
The snap in my voice surprises even me. I take a breath—two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out—and feel the edge soften slightly.
"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm just… it's been almost two months, Ro. What if something happened? What if he's—"
"Speculating without data is counterproductive."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. You're right."
I grab the envelope from my makeshift desk—a board balanced between two concrete blocks, covered in stolen stationary, contraband pens, and a collection of dead flowers I can't bring myself to throw away—and fold the letter carefully. My movements are precise. Methodical.
Counted.
Two folds. Not three. Never three.
The seal comes next: a custom stamp I made during one of my functional periods, when the world made sense for approximately six hours and I got shit done. Neon pink wax—because subtlety has never been my strong suit—melts over a candle flame that flickers in the draft from the broken vent.
I press the stamp down.
Perfect.
But not complete.
Never complete without the ritual.
From my pocket, I extract a sewing pin—stolen from the academy's costume department, sharp enough to pierce skin easily. I hold it up to the flickering light, watching it gleam.
"This is the part where I remind you that self-harm is contraindicated for mental health," Ro says, tone flatter than usual. "And that introducing biohazards into the postal system is technically—"
"It's not self-harm if it's ceremonial."
"That's not—"
"Ceremonial, Ro."