The house slept.

That deep, heavy sleep money buys. No bedlam. No alarms. But only endless corridors with silent sconces and floors that shone without a creak.

Leya was rigid in the center of her bedroom.

She spent there once a minute or two—or so—rigid, inaccessible, just staring at the spread on her bed.

Same hoodie. Same jeans. The same black sneakers that never creaked on marble.

Her ritual.

Her uniform for the other existence.

The one she had.

...