---Grace---

  I walk beside Jason along Pinehaven Drive as the last rays of sunset cast long shadows over the quiet suburban neighborhood. The evening air carries a faint chill that normal humans might find uncomfortable, but my vigger circulation keeps me at optimal body temperature regardless of external conditions. Jason maintains an easy pace beside me, his strides confident despite the dim light—a testament to his improving sight adaptation and the fact that he, now, also possesses vigger that makes him at least more resistant too the chill.

  "We're making good time," he says, checking his watch. "Want to try running the rest of the way? Dave's house is just around the next bend."

  I don't answer immediately. Instead, I scan our surroundings with practiced precision—assessing potential threats, calculating optimal movement pathways, identifying potential tactical advantages in the unfamiliar terrain. Nothing of concern registers. The residential area appears secure, with minimal vehicle traffic and predictable pedestrian patterns.

  "Yes," I decide, turning to face Jason directly. "Running would be tactically efficient and provide additional vigger circulation practice."

  Jason's mouth curves into that particular smile that creates the warm feeling in my chest—the one that reaches his eyes and makes the blue seem somehow brighter. He extends his hand toward me, and I take it without hesitation, noting how this automatic response differs significantly from my usual tactical assessment before physical contact.

  "Ready when you are, Grace," he says, his pulse already quickening in anticipation.

  I adjust my grip on his hand, feeling the now-familiar connection of our vigger pathways forming—his energy flowing into mine, strengthening, accelerating, harmonizing. The sensation no longer startles me as it did during our first attempt. Instead, it feels almost... natural. Something that should be as uposed to something that is concerning.

  "Maintain consistent pace. Focus on breath control. Allow the vigger to support rather than drive your movements," I instruct, my voice dropping to a lower register that I've discovered helps Jason concentrate during training exercises.

  We begin moving, slowly at first, then with rapidly increasing speed. The world around us blurs as we accelerate beyond normal human capabilities. Jason's laughter bubbles up beside me, unfettered and genuine. This response to vigger-enhanced running appears consistent across all attempts—pure joy, unmarred by tactical considerations. I find this reaction puzzling yet somehow satisfying.

  Houses streak past as we run, snow-touched trees becoming smears of white in our peripheral vision. The cool air parts around us, creating a subtle pressure against my face that would be invigorating even if I required such sensations. Jason's hand remains warm in mine, his fingers intertwined with my own in a grip that speaks of growing confidence.

  We cover the remaining distance to Dave's residence in approximately ninety-seven seconds—a 13.2% improvement over our previous attempt. As we slow our pace before reaching the driveway, I feel Jason's vigger circulation patterns stabilizing, adjusting to the decreased physical demand.

  He releases my hand as we approach the front door, though I note the subtle reluctance in the gesture—a fractional hesitation before his fingers disengage from mine. This pattern has occurred with increasing frequency during our physical contact, suggesting a growing preference for maintaining connection rather than ending it.

  "That was amazing," he says, slightly breathless despite his improving stamina. "I think I'm starting to get the hang of directing the flow through my legs better."

  "Your efficiency has improved 13.2% since our last attempt," I confirm. "Your adaptation rate exceeds expected parameters."

  The front door opens before Jason can knock, revealing Dave's imposing frame. His bushy beard cannot hide his wide smile as he ushers us inside.

  "Just in time!" he booms, clapping Jason on the shoulder with enough force to make him stagger slightly. "Everyone else is already here. Even the women showed up."

  I process this statement, noting the emphasis on "women" as potentially significant. Based on previous social interactions, I determine that Dave is likely referring to the partners of his male friends—information that requires additional contextual assessment. Also. Mia is a child, and as such, would not count in this context.

  Jason and I follow Dave through the entryway into the living room, where multiple individuals are engaged in pre-game social interaction. I catalog each person methodically, assessing potential threats, capabilities, and social dynamics.

  Carter sits on the couch, his military bearing evident even in this casual setting. Beside him sits a woman approximately his age—early forties, athletic build, dark hair cut in a practical shoulder-length style. Her posture mirrors Carter's precision, suggesting similar training. Most notably, her eyes scan the room in a pattern I immediately recognize—tactical assessment disguised as casual observation. This must be Revenna. Also, she appears to not be in distress due to, what was it, 'migraines', is what Carter had said?

  Across from them, Mike the survival instructor occupies an armchair, laughing at something Raj has said. Raj stands near the kitchen doorway, his arm around a woman I haven't met before. She appears to be in her late twenties, conventionally attractive by this society's standards, with perfectly styled blonde hair and an outfit that appears calculated for visual appeal rather than practical function. Something about her triggers my tactical assessment protocols, though I cannot immediately identify why.

  Mia sits in a chair, back ramrod streight, no sign of Morden accompanying her.

  "No Morgen today?" Jason asks with a smile at the girl, she frowning in responce before: "no." Jason blinks, blinks again, shrugs before moveing to stand slightly closer to me, a development that I do not seak to remedy.

  "And here they are!" Dave announces. "The final members of our adventuring party."

  All eyes turn toward us. I maintain optimal posture, ready to respond to potential threats, though intellectually I understand none are likely present. This automatic reaction persists despite thirteen days in this relatively safe environment. The fact that Jason appears to both notice and has decided to not attempt to remove said is... Both confuseing and pleasing to me. However, this is neither the time nor place to think upon this further.

  Carter's wife—Revenna—stands immediately, her movement fluid and economical. No wasted energy, no unnecessary gesture. She approaches with direct purpose, her eyes fixed on me with an intensity that would trigger defensive protocols in most combatants. Instead, I find myself responding with recognition—this is familiar. This is something that I understand. This is... Calming, in a way that I have not experienced since my first days in this new environment.

  "Grace," she says, extending her hand. Her voice carries the unmistakable tones of someone accustomed to command. "Carter's told me about you. "ranger battallion, was it?"

  I take her hand, noting the calluses and grip strength—both exceeding normal parameters for civilian females in this society. "Yes. Though the designation has different meaning in my homeland." Intelectualy, I understand that if Carter has told Revenna about me, then he would have told her everything. However, as we spoke of previously, Raj's girlfriend, and I suspect in Revenna's case to a lesser extent Mia, have not been thoroughly vetted, and as such, this, though minor, falsehood.

  Her eyes narrow slightly, assessment sharpening. "Different configuration, same purpose, I'd wager." She releases my hand after precisely 2.3 seconds. "I hear you're teaching Jason some survival techniques. After you gave him his sight back." As she says this last, her eyes flick to Jason, still standing at my side, with a look of approval.

  Furthermore, I detect no skepticism in her tone—only clinical interest and perhaps slight warmth.

  "Yes," I confirm simply.

  "Good," Revenna says with a single, precise nod. "People with capabilities should use them to help others." She turns to Jason, extending her hand to him as well. "Jason. Good to finally meet you. Carter speaks highly of your organizational skills."

  Jason smiles, accepting her handshake. "Thanks. He's mentioned you too, though pretty much everyone at Northern Edge treats your name with a mixture of awe and terror."

  Revenna's laugh is sharp but genuine. "As they should." Before, with a slight grin: "maybee a bit more of the former if they would just stop takeing my coffee though, yes?"

  Dave gestures toward the basement door. "Everyone's grabbing drinks and snacks. Game area's all set up downstairs. Grace, Revenna, you two want anything?"

  "Water is sufficient," I reply, while Revenna requests coffee, black.

  "Can I have?" Mia starts before: "No." Dave says: "you can't have any maypom, you're 7." Mia makes a rude gesture at Dave's back that, even though I have only been in this world a short time, I can tell no 7-year-old should know, before we start moveing.

  As we move toward the basement stairs, I notice Raj approaching with his companion. He introduces her as Melanie, his girlfriend of three months. She offers what appears to be a practiced smile, extending a manicured hand toward me.

  "So you're Grace," she says, her voice carrying an unusual tonal pattern I cannot immediately categorize, Jason stiffening as she continues to speak in a manner I recognise as combat readyness. "Raj has told me all about you. So fascinating that you're teaching at Northern Edge now."

  I accept her handshake, noting the deliberately limp grip—a tactical choice, perhaps intended to appear non-threatening. My sensory assessment notes incongruities—her scent contains synthetic elements designed to mask natural body odors, her smile engages facial muscles in patterns inconsistent with genuine emotional expression, and her pupils contract rather than dilate when she speaks to me.

  "Yes," I respond simply, maintaining my neutral expression.

  Her smile falters momentarily before she turns to Jason with significantly increased enthusiasm. This, I find, displeases me. More than the shopkeeper attempting to gain Jason's sexual availability at the pet store when insureing Kitten's comfort and continued well-being in Jason's, our, dwelling. "And you must be Jason! Raj mentioned you're responsible for all the paperwork that keeps Northern Edge running smoothly."

  Jason shifts his weight slightly—a subtle indication of discomfort I've come to recognize, though if it is because of his seeming conviction that his skills are un-suited for survival, or because Raj's, by the scent, sexual companion is engageing him in conversation, I am unsure. "That's me. Paper pusher extraordinaire."

  "Don't be modest," Dave interjects, guiding us toward the basement stairs. "Without Jason keeping the business side running, we'd have been shut down by regulators years ago."

  We descend into the basement, which has been arranged for optimal gaming functionality. The large table from our previous session remains central, character sheets and dice arranged at each position. Snack bowls and beverages occupy the perimeter, strategically positioned for access without risking damage to gaming materials.

  I find myself automatically gravitating toward the same seat I occupied during our previous session, with Jason naturally taking the position beside me. Carter and Revenna settle across from us, while Mike claims the seat to Jason's right. Raj and Melanie take the remaining positions, with Dave at the head of the table in his role as Game Master and Mia sitting directly beside him, while appearing to be, if not displaying the excitement customary for a normal 7-year-old, she is excited to return to the game. This. Creates a warmth in my chest, much smaller than, but not dissimilor to, the warmth I get when Jason smiles at me or when he learns something that I have taught him.

  "Before we start," Dave announces, shuffling through notes, "let me officially welcome our new players: Revenna and Melanie." He gestures toward them respectively. "They've both created characters that will fit nicely into our ongoing campaign."

  Revenna straightens her character sheet with military precision. "I'm playing a ranger named Revenna," she states. "Specializing in woodland survival and long-range combat. Met Carter years ago during a mission I won't talk about here, though we can talk about it after. He's mine."

  I note the parallel to her actual apparent capabilities, finding this choice tactically sound—choosing a role that leverages existing knowledge rather than requiring extensive adaptation to unfamiliar parameters, even as I do exactly the opposit.

  Melanie giggles, the sound incongruously high-pitched. "I'm playing Lilith, a second piller demonic bard who specializes in charming her way through difficult situations." She glances at Jason with a smile that appears calculated for maximum appeal. "I'm hoping my character can bring some...music into everyone's lives."

  I observe Jason's minimal response—a polite nod without the eye contact Melanie seems to be seeking. This appears to cause her momentary confusion, suggesting she expected different results from her social approach. Good. jason is mine, even if I am unsure of his reaction to me publicly claiming him as such.

  "Dave?" Jason asks: "Grace wanted to be a druid, remember?"

  I blink. I had, it had not slipped my mind, however.

  "Shouldn't be an issue." Dave says with a grin: "Long watch's rules are pretty forgiveing for changeing specializations like that. What's it, like 25 experience or something?"

  "Yeah." Mike says: "about that, and since Grace did that hole warlock thing to get everyone into this reality, that's the training covered."

  "I." I state, "did not. I did not rember this."

  Jason smiles, before gently squeezing my shoulder: "that's what I'm here for, to make sure you don't forget stuff, Grace." I nod, resisting the urdge to cover his hand with my own, to insure that his vigger pathways are continueing to stableize as such can not be done through clothing. I, however, do not. Jason's friends, these individuals who he cares for, have enough arrows to teas him with, and I shall not provide them with further. Even if Jason does not appear to mind said overmuch.

  "Let's pick up where we left off last session," Dave continues. "Your party had just reached the village of Silverpine after rescuing Elina from goblin raiders. You've been given rooms at the local inn as thanks from the grateful villagers."

  The game begins with Dave describing the morning scene at the village inn. I observe that Revenna's approach to role-playing mirrors my own—practical, direct, focused on tactical considerations rather than unnecessary elaboration. Within fifteen minutes, our characters have established a working pattern, scouting the area around the village while the others gather information from locals. Dave explaining, after Jason asking how that works, that the grate houses rules, and long watch in particular, doesn't require you to forgo you're previous classes, unless it was Warhound, but that's more you just get special rules. At least when within the same house, anyway.

  "Revenna the ranger points out fresh tracks along the forest's edge," Revenna states, her tone shifting subtly into a more formal cadence. "These aren't goblin tracks. Something larger has been circling the village."

  I find myself responding almost automatically. "Grace will examine the tracks to determine species, age, and potential threat level."

  "Mia." Mia says: "stops her kata and watches Grace and Revenna from the treeline." I nod. The girl will gain practical skills, and, though Mia's character is a compitent combatant, she has no skills for, what is here called bushcraft, and in my homeland simply called navigation.

  Dave grins beneath his bushy beard. "The two rangers determine that these are worg tracks—large wolf-like creatures often used as mounts by goblin raiders. They're fresh, maybe six hours old at most."

  "We should inform the others," Revenna's character declares. "This suggests the goblin threat isn't fully eliminated."

  As our characters return to the village to warn the party, I notice Mike, Carter, and Dave exchanging meaningful glances. Mike passes something under the table to Carter, who smirks slightly before pocketing it. Currency, based on the glimpse I caught—suggesting some form of wager.

  "What's happening?" I ask Jason quietly.

  He leans closer, his voice low. "They had a betting pool going. I think it involved how quickly you and Revenna would hit it off."

  I process this information. "Hit it off" implies positive social interaction between myself and Revenna, which has indeed occurred at higher efficiency than my typical interpersonal connections. The existence of a betting pool suggests this outcome was anticipated but not guaranteed.

  "I see," I reply. "Is this a common social ritual?"

  Jason smiles. "Friends betting on things? Yeah, pretty common. Especially with this group." Before, with a grin. "Usually involves more bacon, though. Or whisky depending on who's betting what." I process this information before nodding slightly in reply.

  As the game continues, I notice increasing parallels between Revenna's character's behavior and my own. We both prioritize perimeter security, resource management, and tactical assessment. We both communicate in direct, efficient statements. We both express confusion at the more emotionally-driven decisions of our companions, even if I am also grappling with actually learning the machanicle applications of the druid class, I, on multiple occasions, finding myself falling back into the more comfortible ranger skillset that I, as Grace, am expert in. It appears that i will be reading more upon the druid class after this session is finished to insure I do not continue makeing this mistake further.

  During a brief pause while Dave refills his drink, Revenna leans toward me. "Your stance favors your right side. Old injury?"

  I assess her observation—accurate and demonstrating unusually precise attention to subtle physical cues. "Yes. Frost wraith encounter, three years ago. The cold damage never fully healed."

  She nods once, accepting this explanation without questioning the unfamiliar terminology. "I had something similar. Extraction operation in northern terrain. Medical evac came eighteen hours too late to prevent permanent tissue damage."

  The exchange requires no elaboration or social pleasantries. Information delivered, acknowledged, integrated. The efficiency is refreshing after weeks of adapting to this world's more circuitous communication patterns.

  The game resumes, with our party venturing into the forest to investigate the worg tracks. Melanie's character, Lilith, demonstrates unusual interest in Jason's character, employing what I recognize as flirtation techniques. I, as firstly, a child is present, and secondly, doing said would unnecessarraly strain Jason's relationship with both Raj and the others, do not stab her, either in character or in the real world, for this. The fact that Melanie does not know of our. friendship? Relationship? Binding through the deathoath? Does not factor into this calculus.

  "Lilith sidles up to Jace," she narrates, her voice adopting a deliberately melodic quality. "Your eyes are as blue as the morning sky after a storm. Have you ever considered that our meeting might be destined?"

  Before Jason can respond, I find myself speaking. "Grace steps between them, hand on knife hilt. 'The track indicates imminent threat. Flirtation compromises tactical awareness.'" Perhaps I consider stabbing Melanie's character as Grace the druid if she continues this. However Raj, as a werewolf, even a runespeaker, would, in maylay combat and at the distance our party is currently, be able to overpower me, as, by the way that everyone, Dave excluded as he is the gamemaster, are playing, the relationships in the real world mearor those in the game. As such, Raj would defend his sexual companion in the game as he would do in this world, as he should.

  Several unexpected reactions occur simultaneously: Jason's face displays surprise followed by what appears to be pleasure; Dave, Mike, and Carter all laugh; Revenna nods in apparent approval; and Raj looks uncomfortable while Melanie's expression momentarily shifts to what appears to be irritation before returning to practiced pleasantness. Mia, for her part, glances between Melanie and I with what I can only think of as an assessing expression, before nodding to me, ever so slightly. As I am unsure exactly what said nod means, I have not, will not, utalize Mia's scent profile as she is a child, I do not return the nod.

  "Grace's character is very protective," Jason explains, his tone suggesting this represents positive behavior rather than inappropriate interference.

  "Of course she is," Revenna says, examining her character sheet. "Rangers understand the importance of watching your companion's back. The fact Grace is a druid now doesn't change that. Hell, it probably just makes it more motivateing, now.

  "Speaking of companions," Dave interjects, clearly attempting to redirect the narrative. "As you move deeper into the forest, the tracks multiply, suggesting multiple worgs converging ahead."

  The session continues with our characters discovering a goblin encampment. Combat ensues, during which I note that Melanie's character attempts to position herself near Jason's character repeatedly. It could be tactical coincidence, but pattern recognition suggests deliberate intent. The fact that Mia's character, each time, moves to block Melanie's advances is. I, now, understand the slight head-tilt of a nod that the girl made to me previously. Even though this child appears to be far more than anything I have encountered previously.

  After approximately ninety minutes of play, Dave announces a short break for refreshments. I observe Mike passing more currency to Carter, who appears pleased with whatever bet has been resolved in his favor. Mia takes out a small book and starts to read, something involveing a consept called primal magic. Perhaps something related to the game? As, as a druid, I am an expert in the write piller of primal magic.

  "Grace," Revenna says, approaching me directly as others move toward the snack table. "Do you have a moment?"

  I note a subtle change in her movements—slightly less fluid, a minor tension in her trapezius muscles, pupils showing minute contraction patterns associated with light sensitivity. These indicators suggest early-stage migraine symptoms, though she conceals them with practiced efficiency.

  "Yes," I reply, moving to a position of relative privacy near the basement stairs.

  Revenna's voice drops, ensuring others cannot overhear. "Carter mentioned your... medical knowledge. Different from standard approaches."

  I assess her meaning rapidly. Carter has clearly discussed my vigger capabilities with his wife, likely including potential applications beyond physical enhancement. This represents a calculated risk in information security, but one I determine to be acceptable given Carter's demonstrated discretion and tactical awareness.

  "You are experiencing early-stage migraine symptoms," I state rather than ask. "I will assist."

  She doesn't waste time with denial or surprise at my assessment. "How quickly?"

  "I require certain plant materials. Dave's herb garden would provide sufficient components."

  Revenna nods once, decision made. "What should I tell the others?"

  "I will inform Jason of my intended absence," I reply. "The preparation will require approximately twenty-three minutes."

  I approach Jason, who is engaged in conversation with Carter about some aspect of the game's mechanics. Something to do with Druids, as he became aware of my dificulty shortly after the session began.

  "I require temporary absence," I inform him. "Revenna is experiencing migraine symptoms. I can create a compound to assist."

  Jason's expression shifts to understanding, his scent shifting to mild concern. "Need any help?"

  "Request permission from Dave to access his herb garden," I reply. "I will require basic extraction materials from the kitchen as well. It would be. I would wish Dave's consent before harvesting and utalizing his resources."

  Jason nods and moves to speak quietly with Dave, while I prepare to depart. I hear their exchange as I gather my utility knife from my pack.

  "Dave, is it okay if Grace uses your herb garden? She wants to make something for Revenna. Also, something about extracting things involveing the kitchen?"

  Dave glances toward me, his expression showing mild concern. "Sure, just... no neurotoxins, okay? We had an incident with one of Carter's military buddies last year."

  "Dave's herb garden lacks suitable components for neurotoxin creation given available equipment," I state factually, as Revenna joins me near the stairs.

  "That's what I told him last time," Revenna adds, her lips curving in what appears to be shared amusement. "You'd need at least three additional alkaloid-producing species and a proper distillation setup, which I can get, but we don't have at the moment."

  Dave raises his hands in surrender. "Just checking. Kitchen's all yours."

  Revenna and I ascend the stairs, moving with similar economy of motion. I notice her matching my pace precisely—another indication of specialized training compatible with ranger methodologies.

  "You and Jason," she says as we enter the kitchen. Not a question, not a complete statement. Just an observation requiring response.

  "Complicated," I reply, scanning the herb garden visible through the kitchen window. "He saved my life. I restored his vision. We are... connected. Before, as Revenna doubtlessly knows about the deathoath: "I am, not displeased with our current arrangement."

  Revenna processes this with a single nod. "Carter and I were like that. Different circumstances, same result." She watches as I begin selecting preparation tools from the kitchen drawers. "Sometimes the most effective partnerships form in unusual circumstances."

  I move toward the back door, Revenna following closely. "You handle your blades like someone with extensive training," she observes as I begin cutting selected herbs with precise movements.

  "As do you," I respond, noting her careful attention to my technique. "Your posture suggests specialized combat adaptation."

  "Ranger Battalion," she confirms simply.

  I process this information, recalling Carter's comments about his wife's background. "This designation has a different meaning in your context than in my homeland."

  "Different configuration," she reiterates her earlier assessment, "same purpose." She watches as I begin extracting essential compounds from the selected plants. "Defend, observe, report the truth, survive. Go forward. Report what you find for the others. Repeat."

  I find myself appreciating the precision of her definition. "Yes. Exactly this."

  We continue working in efficient silence, with Revenna occasionally assisting by holding materials or providing additional tools without my needing to request them. The interaction requires minimal verbal communication yet achieves optimal efficiency—a working pattern I have rarely experienced outside my homeland.

  As I complete the extraction process, producing a small vial of liquid, Revenna studies my technique with obvious professional interest.

  "This is not the standard pharmaceutical approach," she notes. "Energy manipulation component?"

  "Vigger enhancement," I confirm. "Accelerates molecular extraction and stabilizes bioactive compounds in this case."

  She accepts this explanation without confusion or skepticism, simply nodding once. "Effective. How long?"

  "Approximately three minutes after consumption," I reply, sealing the vial. "Effects last approximately six hours."

  "Impressive," she says, and I detect genuine professional appreciation in her tone. "We should return before they send a search party." Before, face softening. "Carter is... Protective. Something I've grown to appretiate about him over the decades." Before, small grin pulling at her lips: "alongside the man's pancakes in the morning. You've had maple syrup, yes?"

  "I have." I respond: "it is... Acceptible." Revenna nods.

  As we reenter the basement, I notice multiple eyes tracking our arrival with varying degrees of interest. Dave, Carter, and Mike appear to be exchanging more currency, with Carter collecting from both men with evident satisfaction. Mia is still reading her book, though every so often glanceing around at everyone. Jason is stretching his arms over his head with evident relief.

  "What'd we miss?" Revenna asks, resuming her seat beside Carter.

  "We were just discussing what happened to Grace's character while she was gone," Jason explains, his expression suggesting amusement. "The guys decided the funniest option was for my character to be carrying yours in a dimensional pouch on his belt."

  I process this scenario, finding it tactically inefficient yet somehow appropriate. "This would indeed provide optimal protection during my absence."

  Jason's laugh surfaces, warm and genuine. "Of course that's your takeaway, Grace."

  I present the vial to Revenna, who accepts it with a nod of thanks. "For your migraine," I state. "If you require verification of safety, I am willing to demonstrate by consuming a portion myself."

  "Unnecessary," Revenna replies, uncapping the vial and consuming its contents without hesitation. "I trust your competence, Grace."

  This simple statement—particularly from someone with evident military training and natural caution—creates an unexpected warmth in my chest. Trust is not freely given in my homeland; it must be earned through demonstrated capability and shared survival. When it was just Jason, I believed that it was simply Jason's nature to trust. However, revenna's willingness to consume an unknown compound based solely on my word represents... I am unsure.

  We resume our places at the table, with Dave continuing the narrative. "As the party defeats the last of the goblin scouts, Grace emerges from the dimensional pouch, looking slightly disoriented from her time in pocket-space."

  "My character assesses the tactical situation immediately," I state. "What threats remain?"

  "Just the wounded goblin captain," Carter supplies. "He's restrained and ready for questioning."

  "I could just skin him?" Mia's character notes casually: "always wanted a goblin-skin coat."

  "No." I say: "you are a child. You will not be skinning a liveing being till you are at least 16, Mia."

  Jason blinks, glances at me, smiles, scent approveing before shrugging. Mia glowers. Revenna nods at me in seeming approvel.

  The game continues, with our characters extracting information from the captive goblin about larger forces gathering deeper in the forest, notibly without Mia's assistance. Throughout this interaction, I notice Melanie's character making repeated attempts to position herself near Jason's character once again, this time offering assistance that seems designed to create proximity rather than provide tactical advantage.

  During a moment when Dave is describing a forest scene, Melanie turns to Jason directly. "Your character is so brave, rushing into danger to protect everyone. Is that what you're like in real life too?"

  Before Jason can respond, her character makes another advance within the game context. "Lilith moves closer to Jace, touching his arm gently. 'You fought so bravely,' she says. 'Perhaps later I could sing a song just for you...'"

  I find myself speaking before fully calculating the social implications. "Grace moves between them, blade drawn. 'He is mine. Find your own.'" Immediate silence falls around the table, aside from Mia, who starts humming something called, judging by it's learics, 'here comes the sun'.

  I recognize the potential misunderstanding and clarify: "To clarify, my character is stating this about Jason's character, not my personal claim on Jason himself." After all, this is, once more, not the time or the place to have that dialog."

  Despite this clarification, I observe Dave, Mike, and Carter exchanging significant looks and more currency. Jason's face displays increased blood flow to the cheeks and ears—embarrassment mixed with something else I cannot immediately identify, his scent shifting to something both ritch and complex that would take me considerible time to deconstruct.

  "Your character is quite... territorial," Melanie observes, her tone suggesting disapproval despite her maintained smile.

  "Yes," I confirm without elaboration. "Rangers protect what is valuable. Jason is valuable to me. As such, he will be protected."

  Revenna nods in apparent agreement. "Sensible approach. Clear boundaries prevent tactical misunderstandings."

  The game continues for another ninety minutes, during which I observe several significant patterns: Revenna's migraine symptoms visibly recede; Jason's character and mine operate with increasing coordination; Melanie's attempts to engage Jason (both in-game and out) become more pronounced; and the exchanges of currency among Dave, Carter, and Mike continue at irregular intervals. Mia, despite everything, remaines quiet, though she scans the table like she expects it to erupt into conflict at any moment. I, when not watching my, Jason, find myself idally wondering if an embrace, as Jason has proven assists me, would assist the girl? Similarly to the girl within the game's context that I and Jason are parental figures for?

  I also note that something about Melanie continues to trigger my tactical assessment protocols. Her movements occasionally display millisecond hesitations before social responses—suggesting calculated rather than natural reactions. Her attention seems focused primarily on Jason despite her character's supposed interest in the group's overall mission and her sexual relationship with Raj.

  As the session concludes with our characters establishing a defensive perimeter around an abandoned watchtower for the night, Dave stretches and announces the end of today's adventure.

  "Same time next week?" he asks, beginning to gather his notes and dice.

  "Yeah." Jason says, though I'm looking forward to Grace and I doing that three-day training trip first, and can regail you with all the training we did, and. I don't actually know what we'll be doing? But I can regail you all with the stuff I did when we get back."

  "Yeah." Mike snorts: "all the training stuff-" Carter gently smacks the other man up-side the head, cutting off what ever Mike was going to say.

  "True." Dave says with a grin. "remember to tell us when you get back though, yes?" Jason nods.

  As we prepare to leave, Revenna approaches me once more. "Thank you for the migraine remedy. Most effective treatment I've experienced."

  "You are welcome," I reply. "Your migraine patterns suggest trigger sensitivity to changing barometric pressure. I can provide additional compound if symptoms recur."

  She smiles—a small, controlled expression that nonetheless appears genuine. "I'd appreciate that. And perhaps sometime we could exchange survival techniques." She glances at Jason, then back to me. "You've chosen a good partner. He listens well."

  I consider her assessment of Jason. "Yes. He does."

  We say our farewells to the group, with Raj and his girlfriend departing first, with the others moveing into the liveing room. As Jason and I step outside into the cool night air, I note optimal conditions for vigger-enhanced running—minimal traffic, good visibility, appropriate temperature.

  "Ready to run home?" Jason asks, already extending his hand toward mine.

  I take it without hesitation, noting again how this action has become automatic rather than calculated. "Yes."

  As we begin running, vigger flowing between us, accelerating our movements beyond normal human capabilities, I find myself experiencing that strange, warm sensation in my chest again. Jason's laughter rings out beside me as we race through the darkened streets, his hand warm and steady in mine.

  The feeling defies tactical categorization, yet I find it increasingly...satisfactory. Jason, when I said that he was mine, did not reject it. Even if it was simply in the context of our characters, Jason did not reject my useage of it. Did not become ensnared by Melanie, who is conventionally more attractive then I am, despite jason's explanation of why I am attractive to him.. Continues to enjoy our running, which, in it's way, has started me enjoying the action as more than simply an efficient form of re-location.

  ---Jason, when Grace left the bacement to gather Revenna's migrain compound---

  # A Game of Secrets

  "Grace disappears into a little pouch on my belt?" I say, trying to contain my amusement as Dave explains what they've decided happened to Grace's character while she stepped out. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "How exactly does that work in game mechanics? Also, just, how does that actually work? Grace is, well. Grace. How's she going to fit into the pouch?"

  "Dimensional pocket," Mike explains between handfuls of chips. "Standard magical item. Perfectly reasonable to have one at your level." The mischievous glint in his eye betrays the absurdity of the situation. "Also, well. It's fucking adorible." Before, glanceing at Mia: "sorry, kid." Mia doesn't respond, head burried in a book, I think? It's in print but appears to be made out of some-sort of bark? Kind of want to ask her what it is now, but the kid doesn't seem to like me much? Maybee what ever she went through had to do with, well. Men? Raj's too focused on Melanie, and hasn't actually engaged her, and Morgen was here last time. Hope what ever made her skin that red isn't too bad though, she seemed decent, and the maypom was. Really fucking good.

  Carter maintains his usual stoic expression, but I catch the slight crinkle around his eyes that gives away his amusement. "It was either that or have her character suddenly develop an urgent need to forage for medicinal herbs. This was funnier, and you would have wanted to go after her to try to keep her safe. Even if it was just send some of you're ravens or hounds to watch over her." I shrug since, yeah, I would have. Would she have needed it? No. Even as a druid, Grace is, well, Grace. Would I have done it anyway? Yeah.

  "Which would have been too on-the-nose anyway," Dave adds, shuffling some papers behind his DM screen. "This was way funnier."

  "And cuter," Raj chimes in, earning him a playful elbow from Melanie. Good. Not sure how I feel about the woman who's supposed to be with Raj focusing more on me. For multiple reasons. Could just be a her thing? But still. I know how I'd feel if, say, Grace was focused more on someone else, especially another man, then me.

  I'm about to respond when I notice Melanie's eyes on me again. So, fuck that I guess? Going to have to talk to Raj before something happens. Or maybee I could ask Mike to do it? Fuck.

  "So my character is just carrying Grace around in a pouch?" I ask, trying to imagine how Grace will react to this when she returns and also distract myself from my spiraling thoughts about Raj and Melanie and mixture of guilt and concern. "Like a... ranger in a pocket? Even though Grace is technically a druid now, well. Ranger in a pocket sounds funnier than Druid in a pocket, you know?"

  "Exactly!" Dave grins beneath his bushy beard. "Every now and then you can pat the pouch and make sure she's still in there. Maybe feed her some trail mix. She seems to like the stuff, with the amount she's been eating."

  The laughter this generates is interrupted by the basement door opening. Grace enters first, followed by Revenna. I immediately notice the difference in Revenna's posture – the tight lines around her eyes have softened, and the subtle tension I'd observed in her shoulders has eased. Whatever Grace made for her migraine seems to be working.

  Grace moves directly to my side, precise and economical as always, but there's something different about her interaction with Revenna – a mutual respect that's visible in their synchronized movements and shared glances. It reminds me of how soldiers who've served together sometimes communicate without words. Granted, I've only seen that in movies, so. Yeah. Also Carter and his friends, but there soldiers who are also friends, so.

  "What'd we miss?" Revenna asks, sliding back into her seat beside Carter.

  "We were just discussing what happened to Grace's character while she was gone," I explain, feeling a smile tug at my lips. "The guys decided the funniest option was for my character to be carrying yours in a dimensional pouch on my belt."

  I watch Grace process this information, her head tilting slightly in that way that's become so familiar to me. "This would indeed provide optimal protection during my absence."

  I can't help laughing. Only Grace would immediately evaluate the tactical advantages of being carried in a pocket. "Of course that's your takeaway, Grace."

  Grace presents a small vial to Revenna, who accepts it with a precise nod. "For your migraine," Grace states. "If you require verification of safety, I am willing to demonstrate by consuming a portion myself."

  "Unnecessary," Revenna replies, uncapping the vial without a moment's hesitation. "I trust you, Grace."

  The simple exchange speaks volumes. In the short time they've been acquainted, Revenna has already developed enough confidence in Grace to consume an unknown compound based solely on her word. I've never seen Grace establish trust with anyone so quickly. Also. Well, considering how Grace's homeland was about that, Revenna trusting her would be. Well I hope it helps her. Grace, I mean.

  Dave clears his throat, drawing us back to the game. "As the party defeats the last of the goblin scouts, Grace emerges from the dimensional pouch, looking slightly disoriented from her time in pocket-space."

  "My character assesses the tactical situation immediately," Grace states. "What threats remain?"

  "Just the wounded goblin captain," Carter supplies. "He's restrained and ready for questioning."

  "I could always skin him?" Mia notes from where she's been doing a kata: "I always wanted a goblin-skin coat."

  "No." Revenna says: "you're a child. You're not skinning anyone, Mia." Mia glowers, but doesn't otherwise object further.

  We fall back into the rhythm of the game, our characters interrogating the goblin about larger forces gathering in the forest. I notice Melanie's character constantly drifting toward mine, offering assistance that seems designed to create proximity rather than actual help. Which, well. I really, really hope it's just her really, really getting into her character, because if Raj is anything like me, were going to need to talk before something bad happens. Poor guy.

  During a moment when Dave is describing a particularly dense forest clearing, Melanie turns to me directly, her perfectly manicured hand landing on my forearm. "Your character is so brave, rushing into danger to protect everyone. Is that what you're like in real life too?"

  Before I can formulate a polite but distant response, she pivots back to the game. "Lilith moves closer to Jace, touching his arm gently. 'You fought so bravely,' she says. 'Perhaps later I could sing a song just for you...'"

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How the fuck do I deal with this, now? Melanie's been pretty direct, both in-game and out, but always, to me, seperated. That's fucked now. Yeah, going to need to have a chat with Raj to clear the air and let him know that I'm not trying to have any of this before he decides I am and gets. Well. If we were swapped? I'd get, maybee not violent, but. Yeah, I need to talk to the man... Grace's voice cuts through the air with unexpected intensity, pulling me back to the here and now.

  "Grace moves between them, blade drawn. 'He is mine. Find your own.'"

  The basement falls completely silent. I feel my face burning hotter. Did Grace just...? Should I respond? Should I stay silent? Should I dive for that ranger pocket and crawl inside before everything kicks off and we start a brawl?

  "To clarify," Grace adds after a beat of silence, "my character is stating this about Jason's character, not my personal claim on Jason himself."

  Despite her clarification, I see Dave, Mike, and Carter exchanging significant looks and more money. I'm painfully aware that my face must be roughly the color of a tomato by now.

  "Your character is quite... territorial," Melanie observes, her smile somehow not quite reaching her eyes.

  "Yes," Grace confirms without elaboration. "Rangers protect what is valuable. Jason is valuable to me. As such, he will be protected."

  Revenna nods in apparent agreement. "Sensible approach. Clear boundaries prevent tactical misunderstandings."

  I sit there processing what just happened, torn between embarrassment and something else– a warm, not unpleasant flutter in my chest at Grace's character claiming mine so definitively. It's just role-playing, I remind myself firmly, because this is the kind of shit you talk to, in this case Grace, about. Privatly, before doing anything. At all. Just characters in a game. But.

  The game continues for another ninety minutes. I notice Grace watching Melanie with increasing intensity, her eyes tracking the woman's movements with the same focus she applies to potential threats. Something about Melanie seems to have triggered Grace's assessment protocols, though I can't figure out what. Aside from, you know, the othr woman's trying to get close to me throughout the game? Which means I can focus on Raj, at least. So. Good? Maybee?

  As our characters establish a defensive perimeter around an abandoned watchtower for the night, Dave stretches and announces the end of today's session.

  "Same time next week?" he asks, beginning to gather his notes and dice.

  "Yeah." I say while feeling a flutter of antisapation. "looking forward to that three day forest trip Grace and I are doing, I'll regail you about all the traiing and stuff we do when we get back, though."

  Mike snorts. "Yeah. All that training you 2'll... Carter gently smacks him up-side the head, Mike going silent while still smirking.

  Dave nods. "Tell us about it when you get back, yeah?"

  As we prepare to leave, I notice Revenna approaching Grace one last time. "Thank you for the migraine remedy. Most effective treatment I've experienced."

  "You are welcome," Grace replies. "Your migraine patterns suggest trigger sensitivity to changing barometric pressure. I can provide additional compound if symptoms continue."

  Revenna smiles – a small, controlled expression that nonetheless appears genuine. "I'd appreciate that. And perhaps sometime we could exchange survival techniques." She glances at me, then back to Grace. "You've chosen a good partner. He listens well."

  I pretend not to hear this last part, busying myself with collecting my dice and character sheet, but I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips anyway.

  We say our farewells to the group, with Raj and the actual possible psychopath, I looked up the term after Carter talked to Grace and me previously, departing first, with the others moveing to the liveingroom. As Grace and I step outside into the cool night air, I feel the day's tensions melting away. The street is quiet, the air crisp with approaching snow, but I'm still warm because of the vigger Grace gave me.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Ready to run home?" I ask, already extending my hand toward hers.

  Grace takes it without hesitation, her palm warm against mine. "Yes."

  As we begin running, vigger flowing between us like a warm current, accelerating our movements beyond normal human capabilities, I find myself laughing out loud from the pure joy of it. Grace's hand remains steady in mine as we race through the darkened streets, our footfalls nearly silent on the pavement.

  I think about her character claiming mine in the game, that fierce "he is mine" that left everyone momentarily speechless. Just role-playing, I remind myself again. But as we run through the night, hands clasped together, vigger flowing between us like a shared heartbeat, I can't help wondering if perhaps – just perhaps – there was more truth in those words than she intended to reveal. Probably just me, though. Grace is tacticle, practicle, and not someone who just claims other people. Especially if she has no idea weather or not said would be acceptable. Right?

  ---Raj---

  I shouldn't be jealous of Jason.

  The thought circles through my head like a bird of prey as Grace and he leave Dave's basement, her movements fluid and economical as always, his slightly hesitant but growing more confident every day. I lean against the cool concrete wall near the water heater, arms crossed over my chest, the fabric of my Northern Edge instructor shirt rough against my forearms. I think this as Grace and he leave Dave's. The basement stairs creak under their weight, Jason's hand trailing along the railing in that way he still does sometimes, muscle memory from decades of navigating blind. I'm not jealous. Not really.

  Sure, every so often I'd find myself wondering idly what would have happened if Grace had showed up on my doorstep instead of Jason's, but that's normal, right? That's just the kind of stupid thought everyone has sometimes when they see something good happening to someone else. It doesn't mean anything. Hell, the man's been through shit that would break most of us into tiny, useless pieces. I went blind once. Well, mostly blind, could just see blackness and vague shapes and shit, everything reduced to shadow puppets and guesswork. Drank some what turned out to be moonshine at this party in my second year of college, woke up the next morning and couldn't see properly, everything swimming in and out of focus before fading to just darkness. Was blind for a week, stumbling around my shitty student apartment, terrified out of my mind. When I woke up on day five and could actually see again, see the water-stained ceiling tiles and the worried face of my roommate hovering over me, I fucking cried. Just sat there in bed with tears running down my face because I could see the world again, could see colors and shapes and the way light moved through the grimy window. Which is when Mom came home, her key scraping in the lock, her footsteps in the hallway, and I had to tell her all of it. The party, the moonshine, the terror of thinking maybe this was it, maybe I'd be blind forever.

  Jason's been that way—blind, I mean—well, he's not known anything else. Never seen a sunrise, never watched a movie the way normal people do, never seen his own reflection until Grace did whatever vigger magic she did to open his pathways. The man lived twenty-eight years in darkness, and he's still more well-adjusted than half the people I know.

  But tonight? Melanie is my girlfriend. Fuck, even thinking it I feel this weird possessive warmth in my chest, territorial and protective and a little bit scared all at once. Mine. When people start saying shit like that, claiming someone like they're property, everyone except Grace starts calling them possessive assholes, and they're not wrong. Grace is from another dimension where apparently that kind of thinking was normal, where people claimed their pack and protected them with lethal force, and she's like Revenna if Revenna was twenty-five years younger and had never learned to filter her thoughts before speaking. But fine. I'm happy for Jason. Happy for Grace. Happy that two broken people found each other and somehow fit together like puzzle pieces that shouldn't work but do.

  But damn it, I bring Melanie over to game night, introduce her to everyone, try to include her in this thing that's important to me, and why's she just watching Jason half the evening? Does that make me a shit friend for noticing, for caring? A shit boyfriend for being bothered by it? College was supposed to teach me how to handle complicated social situations, but apparently "Wilderness Navigation 301" didn't cover "what to do when your girlfriend seems more interested in your blind friend than in you." Fuck.

  We—Melanie and me—step out onto the porch, moving toward my car parked in Dave's driveway. The February air hits like a slap, cold enough to make my eyes water, the kind of Toronto winter night that makes me question why anyone lives this far north. My Honda sits there, beat-up and dented but mine, runs reliably enough even if the paint's fading. Jason's, well, Jason. He's competent enough at most things, better than competent at sound engineering and organizing Dave's chaotic filing system. I'm not going to compare myself to him because that's shitty, because comparison is the thief of joy or whatever that quote is. I'm a better instructor than Jason, granted, but that's mostly because Jason hasn't had the chance to actually instruct people, not since he tried that one time with the group that, well, several of them mocked him for being blind and not being able to demonstrate proper knife techniques. They laughed at him, actually laughed, when he couldn't see to show them the correct grip. Jason eventually gave up and left, shoulders hunched in that defeated way that made me want to break something, preferably their faces.

  They were my responsibility to vet before they came to the school. I was supposed to screen them, make sure they weren't complete assholes, check references, do my fucking job. Fuck, is he angry about that still? Does he blame me for not catching it, for letting those dickheads into a space where he should have felt safe? The man doesn't let shit get to him usually, doesn't complain, doesn't lash out. Except when he does, and when things actually get to him he keeps it quiet, internalized, locked away because he doesn't want to be a bother or burden or whatever fucked-up thing he tells himself. Which, fair enough, I guess. I don't agree with the whole suffering-in-silence approach, but Jason's Jason and I'm me and we deal with shit differently. So.

  Melanie goes around to the passenger side of the car, her heels clicking on the cold pavement, breath misting in the air. I move toward the driver's side, walking around the back of the vehicle, the metal cold enough that I can feel it through my jacket when I brush against it. Before I reach the door, Revenna moves to stand beside me, materializing out of the shadows like she's part cat or something. The woman moves like smoke, silent and purposeful.

  "Jason's not trying to do whatever," she says quietly, her voice low enough that Melanie can't hear from the other side of the car. She nods over the roof of the Honda toward where Melanie is checking her phone, the screen casting blue light across her face. "He was concerned about how you would take it, though. Your girlfriend spending half the game focused on him instead of you."

  I grimace, feeling heat crawl up my neck despite the cold. The admission makes it real, makes it something that other people noticed, not just my paranoid imagination. Am I a bad friend for being bothered by this? We're the only two young people who work at Northern Edge, me and Jason. Well, us and Grace, but Grace doesn't count because she's Jason's girlfriend—even if they haven't made it official yet, even if they're still doing this awkward dance around what's obviously happening between them. If not officially dating, then they're headed that way like a train on tracks. Revenna's, well. Revenna grins, that small upward tilt of her lips that means she finds something amusing in a situation most people would find awkward, and she says it's fine before I can formulate any kind of response.

  I nod, but the question sits heavy in my chest anyway. Am I a bad friend? Am I jealous of something that isn't even happening? Jason didn't do anything wrong, didn't encourage Melanie's attention, didn't flirt back. If anything, he looked uncomfortable every time her character found some reason to touch his character, every time she'd lean a little too close and compliment him on his bravery or his tactical thinking. Least the kid didn't see it, Mia, that thirteen-year-old with the thousand-yard stare who spent most of the evening practicing what looked like knife forms in the corner or reading that weird book made of bark or something.

  Revenna notes that I can call if I need to, her tone matter-of-fact, offering help without making it feel like pity, before moving back toward Dave's house and her husband Carter. Those two are so solid it's almost intimidating, like they figured out the secret to relationships that everyone else is still struggling with. They claimed each other before I was born, built something unshakeable, the kind of partnership that makes single people feel lonely and couples feel inadequate. No games, no uncertainty, just two people who know exactly where they stand.

  With a soft grunt, I climb into the car and start the engine. The Honda coughs to life, heater blowing cold air for a few seconds before gradually warming up. Emily—no, fuck, Melanie—glances over at me from the passenger seat, her perfectly styled hair catching the yellow glow from the streetlight filtering through the windshield.

  "You okay?" she asks, and there's genuine concern in her voice, in the way her eyebrows draw together slightly. Her makeup is still perfect somehow, despite the hours in Dave's basement, while I probably look like I've been dragged through the wilderness backward.

  I consider lots of different approaches as I pull the Honda out of Dave's driveway, the tires crunching on gravel and old snow. Anger, letting it all explode out in accusations and demands for explanation. Confusion, playing dumb and hoping she'll bring it up herself, make this easier for me. Pleading, asking her to tell me what happened, to reassure me that I'm wrong about what I saw, that I'm imagining things. But I don't want to do that last one, don't want to be the kind of guy who begs for validation like some insecure child who needs constant reassurance. In the end, I just decide to ask straight out. Direct. Simple. Like Grace would do, minus the part where she'd probably describe the optimal killing technique for dealing with romantic rivals.

  "Why were you so focused on Jason tonight?" The words come out more blunt than I intended, but fuck it, Grace isn't the only one who can be direct. Or maybe I'm just learning from the woman being around?

  I drive out of the residential neighborhood and onto the main road, the streetlights casting pools of orange light across the wet pavement. A few other cars pass by, headlights cutting through the darkness, normal people doing normal Friday night things. Melanie is quiet for a while as we drive, the silence stretching long enough that I can hear the soft hum of the engine, the rhythmic thump of the tires over cracks in the pavement, my own breathing that's a little too fast for someone who's supposed to be calm. I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles going white, focusing on the road because looking at her right now feels like it might be too much.

  Finally, she speaks, her voice careful like she's walking through a minefield. "It's a game." A pause, and I can hear her shift in her seat, fabric rustling. "Did I go a bit far outside of the game? Yes, since you seem—not jealous, but—well. Bothered." Another shift, and in my peripheral vision I can see her twisting her hands in her lap. "I was trying to make a unique character. I know? I'm not a ranger like Grace. I'm not like Revenna with her whole terrifying warrior woman energy. It's why I picked a demonic corruptor for my class. It's why I picked a bard. Lilith is supposed to be seductive, manipulative, someone who uses charm as a weapon instead of a sword. But maybe I went a bit too far with it, let the character bleed into reality more than I should have. If I did, I apologize, Raj."

  I consider this as we continue driving, passing through familiar streets, the route from Dave's place to my apartment burned into my brain from months of repetition. The neighborhoods slide past outside the windows—the nice area with the big houses giving way to the more middle-class section with the chain restaurants and strip malls, then gradually transitioning to my neighborhood which is

  , well, let's call it "affordable" and leave it at that. Melanie's quiet until we slow down near my apartment building, a five-story brick structure that was probably nice in the 1970s and has been gradually declining ever since. The lobby light flickers as always, and someone's tagged the wall near the entrance with graffiti that management hasn't gotten around to cleaning yet.

  I move to get out of the car, ready to say goodnight and escape into my apartment where I can process this alone, but Melanie puts a hand on my arm. Her touch is warm through my jacket sleeve, gentle but firm enough to stop me from opening the door.

  She leans closer, and I can smell her perfume, something floral and expensive, the kind of scent that probably costs more than I make in a day. "I'm sorry for fucking up," she says softly, and there's real regret in her voice now, vulnerability that wasn't there before. "In the game? Fair enough, it's characters, right? Just pretend people doing pretend things. Out of the game? When I touched his arm in real life while talking about Lilith touching Jace? I shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have let it blur like that, let the line between character and reality get that fuzzy. That was shitty of me."

  I consider this, the words sinking in slowly like water through sand. She's apologizing. Actually apologizing, taking responsibility, not making excuses or deflecting or telling me I'm overreacting. My shoulders slump slightly, some of the tension draining out of muscles that have been tight since the middle of the game. I'll talk to Jason about it, clear the air, make sure my friend knows I'm not angry at him for something that isn't his fault. Jason wouldn't try anything with Melanie anyway, not when it's obvious she's with me, not when Jason's clearly falling for Grace even if both of them are too emotionally constipated to actually talk about what's happening between them.

  Melanie leans over the center console, pulls me forward by my jacket collar, and kisses me. Her lips taste like cherries, probably from that lip gloss she was wearing earlier, sweet and warm and real. She pulls me against her like this is the most important thing in the world right now, like she's trying to prove something through the pressure of her mouth on mine, through the way her fingers thread into my hair. She's warm and soft and gives a fuck. Not about Jason. About me.

  I relax into the kiss, pulling Melanie against me as much as the car's interior allows, my hand sliding around to the small of her back. The center console digs into my ribs but I don't care. Because in the end, she cares. She wouldn't have done all of this—the dating, the game night, the hours of listening to me talk about wilderness navigation techniques—just to get close to Jason, would she? That doesn't make sense. Why the fuck would anyone want to infiltrate Dave's filing cabinets through Jason? The thought is absurd enough that I almost laugh into the kiss.

  Picking Melanie up—because she likes when I do that, has told me so with that pleased little smile she gets when I demonstrate my strength—I carry her inside. Her legs wrap around my waist, her arms looping around my neck as she laughs softly against my mouth, the sound warm and genuine. The cat lady two doors down, Mrs. Chen, glances out through her partially open door as we pass, probably checking on the noise. She catches sight of us and gives me a thumbs-up, a huge grin on her weathered face, before closing her door with a soft click. The old woman has been trying to set me up with her granddaughter for months, bringing it up every time I check my mailbox, so she's probably thrilled to see me with someone who isn't a potential family connection.

  We navigate up the stairs to my apartment on the third floor, me trying to focus on not dropping Melanie while she kisses my neck, her breath hot against my skin. My hands grip her ass, holding her secure, and she makes this pleased sound that goes straight through me. I nearly trip on the second-floor landing because walking and having a beautiful woman wrapped around me turns out to be more difficult than wilderness survival ever was.

  When we finally reach my door, I have to set Melanie down briefly to fumble with my keys, my hands slightly shaky from adrenaline and arousal. She stays pressed against my back, her hands sliding under my shirt, fingers tracing patterns across my stomach that make focusing on which key goes in which lock basically impossible. The cold metal of the keys bites into my fingers, and I drop them once before finally getting the door unlocked.

  "You're making this harder," I mutter, but I'm grinning despite myself, can't keep the amusement out of my voice.

  "That's kind of the point," she whispers against my ear, her breath making me shiver, and then we're inside, stumbling through the doorway. The door closes behind us with a solid thunk, shutting out the world.

  My apartment is small, barely more than a studio with a separate bedroom, the kind of place that's affordable on a survival instructor's salary but not much more. The furniture is mostly secondhand stuff from Craigslist and whatever I could afford from IKEA—a couch that sags slightly in the middle, a small dining table with mismatched chairs, shelves made from boards and cinder blocks. But it's clean, organized, everything in its place. The walls are decorated with maps and photos from various expeditions, climbing gear hangs neatly on hooks near the door, and my bookshelf is crammed with survival manuals mixed in with beat-up paperback novels.

  Melanie glances around with interest, taking in the space, her eyes lingering on the topographical map of northern Ontario I have framed on the wall, the collection of compasses and navigation tools on my desk. But she doesn't ask questions, doesn't make comments about the small space or the cheap furniture. She just turns back to me, reaches up with both hands, and pulls my face down to kiss me again.

  This kiss is different from the one in the car. Slower, deeper, more deliberate. There's a heat behind it that makes my brain short-circuit slightly, makes everything else fade into background noise. My hands find her waist, pull her closer, and she melts against me like she's been waiting for this all evening. Maybe she has been. Maybe the game night stuff really was just her getting too into character, too method with her acting, and this right here is what's real.

  We stumble toward the bedroom, a tangle of hands and mouths and bodies trying to get closer. Somewhere between the living room and the bedroom door, Melanie's coat hits the floor. My jacket follows, landing in a heap near the couch. She's wearing a soft sweater that feels expensive under my hands, cashmere or something equally nice, the kind of fabric that probably costs more than I make in a week. But she doesn't seem to care when I start pulling it over her head, doesn't protest when it gets caught briefly on her earring and we have to stop to untangle it, both of us laughing quietly at the awkwardness of real life versus movie sex scenes.

  Her hair comes free from its neat style, falling around her face in a way that makes her look younger, less polished, more real. I can see a small scar near her temple that I've never noticed before, half-hidden by her hairline. She catches me looking and smiles, slightly self-conscious.

  "Fell off my bike when I was ten," she explains, touching it briefly.

  "Makes you look tough," I reply, and she laughs, the sound warm and unguarded.

  "You sure about this?" I ask, because I need to check, need to know she wants this as much as I suddenly realize I do. Consent matters, even when you're both adults and have been dating for weeks.

  "Very sure," she says, and there's no hesitation in her voice, no uncertainty in the way she's already working on the buttons of my shirt with deft fingers.

  We fall onto my bed, which thankfully I remembered to make this morning, the comforter smooth under us. The sheets smell like the cheap detergent I use, clean and simple. Melanie's skin is soft under my hands as I trace the curve of her waist, the line of her hip. She shivers when I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat where her pulse beats quick and strong. I can feel her heart racing, matching my own.

  My girlfriend. Melanie is my girlfriend, and she's in my bed, and the rest of the world—Jason and Grace and game night and jealousy and insecurity—can fuck off for a while. Right now there's just this, just her, just the warmth of another person who chose to be here with me.

  The rest blurs together in a way that's both vivid and dreamlike, intense and gentle by turns. Afterward, when we're tangled in my sheets, her head resting on my chest and my arm around her shoulders, the room quiet except for our gradually slowing breathing, I feel something settle in my chest. Peace, maybe. Certainty. The fear and jealousy from earlier seem distant now, childish, easy to dismiss.

  Melanie's fingers trace absent patterns on my chest, circles and spirals and random shapes. "I really am sorry about tonight," she says quietly into the comfortable silence. "I got too into the character stuff. Lilith was supposed to be this manipulative figure who uses seduction as a weapon, and I wanted to play her right, wanted to really inhabit that role. But I lost track of where the character ended and I began. That's on me. I should have been more aware of how it looked, how it would make you feel."

  I tighten my arm around her shoulders, pull her a little closer. "You explained. We're good." I pause, staring at the ceiling where shadows move in the dim light filtering through my curtains from the streetlight outside. "I should still talk to Jason though. Clear the air. Make sure he knows I'm not pissed at him or anything, that I don't blame him for something he didn't even do."

  "That's probably smart," Melanie agrees, her voice drowsy now, words slightly slurred with approaching sleep. "Jason seems like a good guy. Doesn't deserve to be stressed about whether his friend is angry at him over something he didn't encourage or participate in."

  "Yeah," I say quietly, the word barely more than a breath. "He really doesn't."

  We lie there in the darkness of my bedroom, the streetlight outside casting orange shadows across the ceiling through my thin curtains. The building is quiet around us, just the occasional sound of footsteps in the hallway or the distant hum of someone's TV. Melanie's breathing gradually evens out, becoming slow and steady, each exhale warm against my chest. I think she might have fallen asleep. I stare at the ceiling, my mind wandering despite the comfortable weight of her against me, her body warm and solid and real.

  Jason really is my friend, probably my best friend if I'm being honest. One of my only real friends, not counting the other instructors at Northern Edge who are all at least ten years older and sometimes treat me like a promising student instead of a peer. They're good people—Dave and Mike and Carter and Revenna—but there's always this sense that I'm still proving myself, still earning my place among them. Jason doesn't have that gap. Jason treats me like an equal from the beginning, asks my opinion on things, listens when I talk about celestial navigation or wilderness first aid, includes me in conversations without making me feel like I have to constantly demonstrate my worth.

  And Grace, well. Grace is something else entirely. I still aren't entirely sure what Grace is, beyond being from another dimension where apparently eating people was considered normal and emotions were seen as weaknesses to be eliminated. The woman is terrifying and fascinating in equal measure, like watching a big cat at the zoo—beautiful and deadly and operating on rules that don't quite make sense to anyone else. But she makes Jason happy in a way that I've never seen before, not in the months we've worked together. The man practically glows when Grace is around, even when she's saying something completely insane like calculating the structural weaknesses in a building for optimal escape routes or explaining the best way to break someone's neck.

  Tomorrow I'll text Jason, suggest we grab coffee or lunch or whatever, clear the air about tonight. Make sure my friend knows that I don't blame him for anything, that whatever weirdness happened with Melanie's character flirting with Jason's character was just that—weirdness with game personas, not anything Jason encouraged or wanted. Because friends talk about that shit instead of letting it fester into resentment and stupidity and eventually poisoning the whole relationship.

  Sleep comes easier than I expect, pulling me under in gentle waves like water over sand. The last thought I have before unconsciousness claims me is that maybe, just maybe, things are going to be okay.

  When morning comes, filtering through my inadequate curtains in shafts of weak February sunlight that do nothing to warm the room, I wake to find Melanie still there. Still curled against me, her dark hair spread across my pillow like ink in water. Still, well. Not mine, because that's not smoething I want to deal with, but. Still. Well. Still, which is the point, I guess.

  ---Dave---

  I prop my feet up on the coffee table, nursing the last sip of scotch as the basement door closes behind Jason and Grace. That final glimpse of them—Grace's perfect posture, Jason's barely contained excitement as they prepare for their vigger-enhanced sprint home—lingers in my mind. There's something between those two that defies conventional relationships. Something more primal, more necessary. or maybee I'm just getting old.

  "Well," I announce to the remaining company settled around my living room, "that went about as expected."

  Mike snorts, counting a small stack of bills before passing twenty dollars to Carter, who accepts it with quiet satisfaction. "I still can't believe Grace actually said 'He is mine' with a knife drawn. I mean, character or not, that was intense, and Revenna did it with a pump-action shotgun."

  "The clarification was adorable," Revenna says, a rare smile softening her usually severe features. She's looking better since whatever herbal concoction Grace mixed up for her migraine. "Very Grace. Very precise. Also, I could have done it with an SMG, but. Well. I like shotguns. Libirators, well. There solid troops. The guild? No. Just, no."

  Carter nods, his arm casually draped across the back of the couch behind his wife. "Told you they'd click. You and Grace," he says to Revenna. "Like recognizing like."

  "Speaking of recognizing," Revenna says, her voice dropping slightly as she sets her coffee mug on the side table with perfect precision, "we have a problem."

  I raise an eyebrow. "Melanie?"

  "She's a psychopath," Revenna states flatly. "A real one. Not whatever Grace thinks she is, which is... complicated. But Melanie? Clinical, textbook psychopath. Mia's, well. Not. Not yet, anyway, but I'll deal with her."

  The room falls silent. Mike sits forward, elbows on knees. "You sure? I mean, she's clearly into Jason, not Raj, which is it's own issue, but—"

  "I spent six years identifying insurgents hiding among civilian populations," Revenna cuts him off. "I know what I'm looking at. The calculated gestures, the micro-expressions that don't quite align with her words, the way her pupils contract instead of dilate when she's feigning interest. Textbook. Mia's still a kid. Fucked up, been through shit no child should ever have to go through, and someone trained her into a weapon, I'm going to have to have a chat with said, but Mia's still a kid. For now. Melanie though? No, she's a full-blonw psychopath."

  Carter nods slowly. "I noticed some inconsistencies. The way she watches everyone when she thinks nobody's looking. But I figured it was just social awkwardness. I mean, Grace does it, and. Well. Grace." he shrugs, shoulders riseing and falling, though not moveing his arm from behind his wife, Revenna learning back into the arm ever so slightly.

  "It's not," Revenna says firmly. "I worked with a behavioral psychologist who specializes in antisocial personality disorders during my time with... the unit. Melanie ticks every box. And she's fixated on Jason, not Raj."

  I reach for the scotch bottle, topping off everyone's glasses. This conversation suddenly demands more alcohol, and Morgan's Maypom keg got all drunk yesterday. "So what do we do? Warn Raj? Warn Jason? Just tell Grace and let her handle it?"

  "I'm more concerned about what Grace will do," Carter says, accepting his refreshed drink with a nod of thanks. "She noticed too. I could see her cataloging Melanie's behavior all night, even if she probably didn't exactly know what she was looking at. If Melanie makes a direct move on Jason..."

  "Grace will eviscerate her," Mike finishes, looking surprisingly unbothered by the prospect. "Literally, probably." Before, "then probably gift her skin to jason or something."

  Revenna takes a measured sip of her scotch. "We have four separate issues here. One: the likelihood Grace will kill Raj's girlfriend if provoked. Two: whether we should just let this play out naturally. Three: how to ensure Raj isn't harmed by his psychopathic girlfriend. And four: what exactly to do about Grace herself." Before: "also, someone should insure Mia doesn't decide to involve herself, but I'll deal with that. She's a girl, for one, and. Well. Carter's not exactly the person to deal with this, Mia, I mean." Revenna shrugs.

  "What do you mean, 'do about Grace'?" I ask, feeling oddly protective of the strange, intense woman who's become part of our circle. Also, well. Murderus children are not in my wheelhouse, so I'll let Revenna handle, well. That.

  Revenna looks at me directly, her gaze unsettlingly similar to Grace's in its intensity. "Grace shouldn't exist, Dave."

  Carter places a hand on his wife's arm, a gesture so smooth and automatic it speaks of decades together. Revenna glances at him briefly before nodding and continueing.

  "Ranger Battalion—whatever it actually is—had rules. One of them was that no member would ever be named Grace. Cover identity excepted, but no one would willingly take the name Grace."

  "Why not?" Mike asks, leaning forward with evident curiosity. Then again, well. Ranger battallion had hundreds of rangers, women like Revenna in it. Can't really blaim the man, and we've been hearing about it for decades.

  Revenna shakes her head, frustration flickering across her features. "I can't remember. It's one of those traditions passed down without explanation. But I know it, bone-deep. And Grace is... if not Ranger Battalion, then trained by someone who was."

  I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, considering her words. "Does it matter what she's called? She's helping Jason. That 'he is mine' moment—even with the clarification—that's progress, right?"

  Carter nods. "Significant progress. Grace is developing attachments she probably never expected to form. Whatever she believes about herself, she's capable of genuine connection. We've all seen that, and Jason? Like I said, she gave him something he never thought he'd ever get, and that changes a man. She's helping him. He's helping her."

  "She reminds me of myself," Revenna admits quietly. "Before Carter. Before... everything. That absolute focus, the tactical assessment of every situation, the struggle to understand emotional nuances that come naturally to others."

  "You want to mentor her," Carter states, not a question, not after decades married to the woman.

  Revenna nods once, precisely. "Partly to help her and Jason navigate whatever's developing between them. Partly because I see myself in her, and if possible, I'd like to ease her transition. However much she'll permit herself to be guided, anyway."

  "They definitely hit it off," Mike observes. "Twenty-three minutes to become herb-gathering buddies and share ancient ranger secrets? That's got to be a record for Grace."

  "Damn straight," I agree, raising my glass in a small toast. "I've known her for weeks and still can't get a straight answer about her 'homeland.'"

  Carter chuckles. "Traditional mentorship would suggest I should guide Jason, then. Kid would be tarafying with a rifle."

  "Unless it specifically has to do with Grace," Mike points out. "And even then, you might not be the best fit. Jason's intuitive—highly intuitive—and emotional, in a good way. You're..."

  "Neither," Carter supplies dryly. "Fair assessment."

  "Which raises the age-old question," I say, grinning as I sense an opportunity to lighten the mood. "If Carter had been highly emotional and intuitive, would he have ever met Revenna?"

  Revenna rolls her eyes, a gesture so subtle most would miss it. "We settled the dating question years ago, Dave."

  "I saved her life because, at that time, having a fellow soldier die in a trench full of sucking mud wouldn't have helped the unit," Carter states matter-of-factly. "The fact said soldier was a woman about my age didn't register until I'd pulled her out. After which," he adds with a rare smile, "she tried to ram her blade through my eye, thinking I was an enemy combatant. Which, well, I was. Didn't notice that till I pulled her out, either."

  "To be fair," Revenna counters, "you were wearing a disguise of the third force in that shitshow."

  "A disguise that saved both our lives," Carter reminds her. "And technically, I was an enemy combatant. Just not to you."

  Mike laughs. "I still can't believe your first date was in a field hospital with both of you under guard."

  "It wasn't a date," they say in perfect unison, a well-rehearsed response that makes the rest of us chuckle.

  "Back to the psychopath problem," Revenna says, seamlessly returning to the matter at hand. "I could just kill her. Make it look like an accident. Raj wouldn't even know."

  The room falls silent again, but there's something in Revenna's tone that makes me uncertain whether she's joking. Carter's expression doesn't help clarify; he's simply watching his wife with the same attentive neutrality he always shows when she discusses killing people strategies.

  "That seems... extreme," I venture. "Maybe we start with warning Raj before, you know, kill the girlfriend?"

  "Raj won't believe us," Mike points out. "He's too flattered that someone who looks like Melanie is interested in him. Besides, what would we say? 'Hey buddy, your hot girlfriend is actually a dangerous psychopath who's only using you to get close to Jason, who's currently spoken for by another possibly dangerous woman who could break her in half'? The fuck would any of us have done if we were him?"

  "When you put it that way," I concede, "it does sound ridiculous. Also, yeah. Best case, we wouldn't believe us."

  "I still vote for letting Grace handle it," Mike says, draining his glass. "She'll figure it out eventually. Probably already has, knowing Grace."

  "And then we'll have a corpse to deal with," Carter notes, though he doesn't sound particularly bothered by the prospect. Then again, Charley's Charley. Even if Cor's a bit, well. The woman does drink blood, but it's Charley's, and there good coroners anyway.

  "Not necessarily," Revenna counters. "Grace is disciplined. She won't act unless Melanie poses a direct threat to Jason. And even then, she'll calculate the most efficient response. That might not be lethal force."

  I rub my beard thoughtfully. "So we... what? Watch and wait? Hope Grace doesn't decide that disemboweling Melanie is the most efficient solution to the problem? Or, you know, just turning her into a hat?"

  "Essentially," Revenna confirms. "While keeping a close eye on both Raj and Jason. If Melanie is fixating on Jason, she'll make a move eventually. Probably when Grace is away."

  "Like during their three-day forest training," Mike suggests grimly.

  Carter shakes his head. "Too soon. Melanie's type operates more cautiously. She'll integrate herself further, make herself indispensable to the group, ensure she's welcome in all social gatherings. Then she'll isolate her target. Also, Jason and Grace are both going on that trip, Mike."

  "Jesus," I mutter. "This got dark fast."

  "Welcome to the reality of predators hiding in plain sight," Revenna says, her voice carrying that clinical detachment that reminds me so much of Grace. "They're everywhere, and most people never notice until it's too late."

  The conversation continues along these lines for another hour, spiraling through potential scenarios and preventative measures, none of which seem entirely satisfactory. Eventually, we shift to lighter topics—Carter's plans for expanding the medical training program at Northern Edge, Mike's ideas for new survival courses, Revenna's surprisingly detailed knowledge of local herb cultivation.

  As the night wears on, fatigue and alcohol gradually disperse our gathering. Carter and Revenna leave first, with Revenna's parting comment that she'll "keep an eye on the situation." Mike crashes in the guest room, where he's been staying since his own apartment flooded last month.

  I make my rounds through the house, checking doors and windows—a habit from my own wilderness days, when security meant survival. In the quiet darkness of my home, I find myself thinking about Jason and Grace, running through the night together, connected by whatever strange energy they share.

  As I settle into my bed, my thoughts drift to the contrast between what's developing between them and whatever game Melanie is playing. I wonder if I'll ever find something like what Carter and Revenna have—that fierce, protective partnership forged in shared danger and mutual respect. Or even what's growing between Jason and Grace—something primal and necessary, a connection that seems to transcend conventional relationships.

  Not like Raj and Melanie. I'm still worried about how that situation will end. Raj is a good kid. Competent, but still young in many ways, and not nearly as emotionally intuitive as Jason. I noticed that Jason noticed something off about Melanie, even if only subconsciously. He sensed her wrongness, despite being focused almost entirely on Grace. But Raj? He's too dazzled by the fact that a beautiful woman is spending time with him at all. Which, well. I can't really blaim him, I was worse at his age.

  Sleep comes slowly, my mind still churning with concerns about psychopaths—both the self-proclaimed and the genuine article—and what might happen when those forces inevitably collide. My last coherent thought before drifting off is a strange, half-formed hope that Grace's influence on Jason is as positive as Jason's influence clearly is on her.

  Whatever happens next, I have a feeling our little group is in for a storm, and I can only hope we're all still standing when it passes.

  ---Mike---

  I blink awake to the faint sound of dripping water, my back stiff from another night on this makeshift mattress. The warehouse étienne suggested is a definite upgrade from underneath the bridge—warmer, drier, with those southern-facing windows letting in actual sunlight—but it's still a warehouse. My breath fogs in the cold morning air as I push myself upright, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

  Then I freeze. Someone's here.

  Across the cavernous space, perfectly still and sitting cross-legged on an empty wooden cable spool, is Grace. She doesn't move, doesn't fidget, doesn't even seem to breathe. Just watches me with those unnerving green eyes. How long has she been there?

  "Jesus Christ," I gasp, clutching at my chest. "You scared the shit out of me. Again."

  "I apologize for startling you," Grace says, her voice carrying that precise, measured quality that makes every statement sound like she's reporting tactical information. "I only arrived seventeen minutes ago. I did not watch you sleep, as Jason has informed me that most people find that... Disconcerting."

  I can't help but laugh at that, the tension draining from my shoulders. "Yeah, that's definitely... Good call." I pull my jacket tighter around me, channeling vigger to warm my core as Grace taught me, takeing a moment to marvle about how automatic it's become now before. "What brings you here so early? Everything okay with Jason?"

  Something shifts in her expression—a fraction of movement most people would miss. "Jason is well. We are departing for the forest training expedition today. I wished to check if you required anything before our departure."

  There's a hesitation before she says this last part, so slight I almost miss it. It's the most uncertainty I've ever heard in her voice.

  "That's... thoughtful of you," I say, genuinely surprised. I stand up, stretching my arms overhead to work out the kinks in my spine. "Didn't expect a house call, especially not today."

  Grace remains motionless, watching me with that intensity that never wavers. "Your vigger development has progressed significantly. It would be tactically unsound to allow your training to lapse during our absence."

  I move to the warehouse's makeshift kitchen area—just a camping stove and a few supplies I've managed to collect. The pipes do work, sort of, delivering rust-colored water that I've learned to filter through an old t-shirt before boiling. I fill a dented pot and set it on the stove.

  "Coffee?" I offer, though I already know her answer.

  "No, thank you. Caffeine offers minimal tactical advantage in my current state."

  Same answer as always. I've yet to see Grace consume anything that isn't directly tied to survival.

  "Your vigger circulation has improved," she observes again as I move around the space. "You're maintaining temperature control despite suboptimal environmental conditions."

  "Getting better at it," I admit, measuring coffee grounds into a metal mug. "Not waking up freezing anymore makes a hell of a difference. Sarah's noticed something's up, though. Keeps asking how I stay warm when I've given her my extra blanket."

  Grace tilts her head slightly. "You have not disclosed vigger training to your group yet?"

  I shake my head. "Hard to explain 'magic energy manipulation' without sounding completely unhinged. Plus—" I hesitate, unsure how much to share about Sarah's past experiences with manipulative cult figures who promised special powers. "Sarah's seen some things. Makes her wary of anything that sounds too... mystical. She didn't have it easy when she came back."

  "Jason spoke highly of your progress," Grace says, changing subjects with her usual abruptness. "He believes you have particular aptitude for thermal regulation."

  That makes me smile despite myself. "He did, huh? Didn't realize you two were talking about me."

  "We discuss all aspects of tactical preparation," Grace responds matter-of-factly. The coffee begins to boil, and I pour it carefully into my chipped mug. The rich aroma fills our corner of the warehouse, momentarily making this abandoned industrial space feel almost homey.

  "How'd the dinner go?" I ask, settling back onto my mattress with the steaming mug. "I was there, I know, but I want you're take on it."

  There's another of those micro-hesitations, a barely perceptible pause before she answers. "The interaction was... complex. Jason's mother detected information about our death oath that was not intended for disclosure."

  I nearly choke on my coffee. "Death oath?"

  "Yes. When Jason saved my life, we became bound through vigger. If he dies, I also die." She states this as calmly as someone might discuss the weather. "This information was accidentally revealed during dinner when Jason began choking on an ice cube. You, if I remember correctly, were there for it."

  "Just forgot about that." I say with a shrug, because I had. Because I think my mind looked at that information, went 'fuck this' and then deleated it from, how do the kids say it these days, ram? Something like that, never was a computer guy, not more than I had to. "I had the skills to help, so, I helped." I shrug again because, well. I did. Same reason I got Jason out of the way before he got hit by that fucking truck earlier.

  "That is correct." Grace says, something flickering in her green eyes.

  I take a moment to process this. "Grace, are you saying if I hadn't been there to help Jason, and he'd actually choked to death on that ice cube... you would have died too?"

  "Yes. The vigger backlash would have been immediate and fatal." She says this with complete equanimity, as if discussing something as mundane as bus schedules. "It was fortunate you were present, even if I would have insured that my jason did not die ruffly 1.3 seconds after you're intervention."

  I stare at her, trying to wrap my head around this revelation. No wonder Jason's mother was concerned. "This death oath thing—is it... permanent?"

  Grace meets my gaze directly. "Under normal circumstances, yes. Though it is worth noting that had I been the one to extract the ice cube from Jason's throat, thus saving his life as he once saved mine, the obligations would have balanced, and thus dissolving the oath."

  Something in her tone catches my attention. "You sound almost... disappointed that didn't happen."

  For the first time since I've known her, Grace looks away, her gaze fixing on a point somewhere near the warehouse's high windows. "The oath itself is merely a state of being. I neither desire its presence nor its absence. However, Jason views it as a direct impediment."

  "An impediment to what?" Pretty sure I know, but. Well. This is Grace, so should really ask.

  Another pause, longer this time. "To any potential relationship development beyond tactical alliance. He is concerned about the power imbalance it creates." She looks back at me, her expression as inscrutable as ever. "I have no experience with relationships outside tactical ones. Jason, despite his self-deprecation, has considerable skill in this area."

  The realization hits me like that truck that would have hit Jason without me being there. Grace—this deadly, efficient, utterly alien woman—is trying to talk about feelings. With me, of all people.

  "So," I say carefully, "you're saying Jason is holding back because he thinks this oath gives him some kind of power over you that would make a relationship... unequal?"

  "Yes. His ethical concerns are admirable, if unnecessary from my perspective." Her hands rest perfectly still on her knees, not a single nervous fidget or tell. "He refuses to speak certain phrases, carefully structures requests as questions rather than commands, and maintains heightened awareness of potential accidental orders."

  I take a slow sip of my coffee, considering. "That sounds exhausting for both of you."

  "It is inefficient," she agrees. "But characteristic of Jason's consideration for others."

  "And you'd prefer if the oath was gone? So Jason wouldn't feel that way anymore?"

  Grace considers this with the same intensity she brings to everything. "I would prefer whatever maximizes tactical effectiveness while ensuring Jason's wellbeing. If the oath's absence would accomplish this, then yes."

  It's the most roundabout way I've ever heard someone say they care about someone else, but coming from Grace, it feels almost like a confession.

  "You know," I say carefully, "most people don't need magical life-bonds to care about each other. They just... do."

  "I am aware," Grace replies. "However, I am not most people."

  That makes me laugh—a genuine, surprised sound that echoes in the empty warehouse. "No, you definitely are not." I finish my coffee and set the mug aside. "For what it's worth, I think Jason cares about you regardless of any oath. The way he talks about you, looks at you... that's not obligation. That's something else entirely."

  Grace's expression doesn't change, but I swear something in her eyes softens just a fraction. "Your assessment may have merit. Jason often behaves in ways that exceed oath requirements."

  "Like making sure you had lights on in the basement?"

  Her head tilts slightly. "You noticed this detail."

  "I notice a lot of things. Construction worker, remember? Details matter when you're building something that has to last."

  Grace stands in one fluid motion, no wasted energy, no unnecessary movement. "I should return to Jason's dwelling. We depart for the forest in approximately forty-seven minutes."

  "Don't let me keep you," I say, rising as well. "Thanks for checking in. I'll keep up with the exercises while you're gone."

  Grace reaches into her pocket and produces a small package wrapped in paper. "Nutritional supplements. Caloric density sufficient for three days. For you and your companions."

  I accept the package, feeling its substantial weight. "Thanks, Grace. This helps."

  She moves toward the warehouse door, then pauses, looking back at me. "Mike Tanner."

  "Yeah?"

  "You are different from what I initially assessed. I believed your primary value was as a test subject for vigger compatibility in this world." Her eyes meet mine directly. "I was incorrect. Your value extends beyond tactical parameters."

  Before I can respond to this unexpected acknowledgment, she's gone, slipping through the door with that uncanny silence that makes me wonder if she was ever really here at all. Only the package in my hands and the lingering scent of coffee in the air prove otherwise.

  I look down at the carefully wrapped bundle of food—enough to feed Sarah, Kyle, Rat, and me for days—and shake my head in wonder. Grace may not understand relationships beyond tactical alliances, but somehow, she's building them anyway.

  ---Jason---

  The shovel is screaming at me.

  Not just screaming—lecturing, actually. Its metallic voice rasps like a cheese grater against my eardrums as it hovers impossibly in midair, the sharpened edge of its blade angling toward me with each emphatic point, wiggling in mid air every times it bellows something new.

  "—and when you're out there in those woods, you stupid limp-dicked civilian, remember that sex in a tent is fucking LOUD. Everyone can hear it! EVERYONE. And if you think a sleeping bag provides adequate cushioning from twigs, rocks, and the general hostility of the forest floor, you've clearly never had your knees ground into pine needles while trying to maintain proper thrusting leverage!"

  I'm frozen in place, unable to move as this... military-grade entrenching tool graphically explains the mechanics of exactly how you fuck in a forest, which I really don't want to hear about for several related reasons. The shovel—which has introduced itself as "BREACH, you ignorant taint-stain"—occasionally punctuates its points by stabbing into the ground. Which, I guess is better than into my chest or face?

  "The key is to clear a proper area first," it continues, its voice carrying the weary knowledge of someone who's witnessed too many tactical failures. "You need at minimum a two-meter diameter with all debris removed. Establish a perimeter! Don't just flop down wherever hormones overtake your pathetic excuse for judgment!"

  The shovel somehow produces a diagram in midair—a glowing blueprint of optimal sexual positioning options relative to slope gradient and ground hardness.

  "Are you paying attention? This is essential intelligence! My best friend's first date with his Mia was RUINED because fucking castoffs like you can't grasp basic fucking language!"

  I try to ask who its "best friend" is, but my mouth won't work. The shovel is now heatedly describing something involving "proper equipment allocation" and "resource management during extended wilderness engagement."

  "And for fuck's sake," it's shouting now, well, more than it's been throughout of what ever the fuck this is, "maintain AWARENESS of environmental hazards! Nothing kills the mood like poison ivy on genitals, or a sudden fox attack, or realizing you've planted your ass directly on an anthill! TACTICAL AWARENESS DURING COITUS IS NOT OPTIONAL!"

  The shovel is now inches from my face, its metal blade somehow reflecting light that isn't there.

  "Do you understand me, Stone? Don't fuck this up. She deserves better than amateur hour in the wilderness. So help me, if you—"

  I wake up screaming.

  Not just a startled yelp—a full-throated, terror-drenched scream that tears from my lungs as I bolt upright in bed. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and cold sweat plasters my t-shirt to my chest because one, it's fucking cold outside and 2, and more importantly, I'm not running the risk of Grace wanting something, then comeing into my room to find me sleeping naked, because she doesn't need that, thankyou very much. Even if Grace, being Grace, would probably just, I don't actually know, and I'm not just going to ask her, that would be fucking wierd.

  "Jesus Christ," I gasp, running shaking hands through my hair. "What the actual fuck was that?"

  Morning sunlight streams through my window, the cheerful February brightness a stark contrast to the surreal horror of my dream. I take several deep breaths, trying to steady myself as fragments of the nightmare fade—thank god—from immediate memory.

  "No more spicy Thai food before bed," I mutter, flopping back against my pillow. "Or maybe it was that article about military entrenching tools I read for some reason yesterday? Whatever. No more of that then, either. Also, didn't I start with reading about latrine pits and then, well, shovel combat.

  I glance at my bedside clock: 6:17 AM. We're not due to leave until nine, but my brain is fully awake now, crackling with nervous energy. Today's the day. Grace and I are heading into the forest for three days of intensive training—just the two of us, miles from civilization, with her teaching me survival skills and vigger techniques, and fuck you shovel subconscious, nothing you said is going to happen. Because the deathoath is still in place, and, well. Power imbalance.

  My stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with remnant shovel trauma. Three days. Alone. With Grace.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wiggling my toes against the cool hardwood floor. The sensation still amazes me—being able to actually see my feet, the grain of the wood, the dust bunnies that have accumulated under my dresser. Two weeks of vision and it still feels like a miracle every morning.

  "Don't fuck this up, Stone," I tell myself, then wince as the phrase triggers a flash of dream-shovel ranting. "Okay, different pep talk. Just... be useful. Learn what she wants to teach you. Don't be a burden to the woman who gave you a reason to, you know, live and stuff."

  I head to the shower, letting hot water wash away the last clinging threads of my bizarre dream. As steam fills the bathroom, I mentally run through our preparation for the trip. Grace has been methodical about it all—gear selection, location scouting, food planning. Dave provided most of the equipment, but Grace inspected every item with that laser focus of hers, rejecting anything that didn't meet her exacting standards.

  My contribution has mainly been... existing? Occasionally handing her things? The power imbalance in our relationship is something I try not to dwell on too much. She literally gave me sight. She's teaching me to manipulate life energy. She could probably kill me with her pinky finger. And I... well, I'm learning. Trying to be worthy of the investment she's making in me. Trying to not fuck anything up too much, and then dreaming about angry military shovels who seem to be getting things from my subconscious which I really don't need to deal with or want to think about right now.

  By the time I finish my shower and get dressed in the clothes Grace approved for the trip—moisture-wicking base layer, insulating mid-layer, weatherproof outer shell—my stomach is growling insistently. I head downstairs, following the smell of coffee and the sound of my parents' voices.

  Mom's at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced precision. Dad sits at the table, newspaper spread before him though I know he's been getting most of his news online for years. It's a habit he maintains, he says, to "keep in touch with the tactile experience of information." The engineer in him appreciates physical interfaces. I just shrug, since dad is dad is dad.

  "Morning," I announce, making my footsteps deliberately heavier on the last few stairs. I've learned that my newfound ability to move quieter—a side effect of Grace's training in vigger—can startle people if they're not expecting me.

  "Jason!" Mom turns, spatula in hand, her expression brightening. "I wasn't sure if you'd be up this early. Excited for your trip?"

  "Nervous-excited," I admit, pouring myself a cup of coffee. "Like before a roller coaster, but the roller coaster lasts three days and might involve killing my own food."

  Dad chuckles, folding his newspaper. "Grace explained that she's bringing supplies. The hunting is just supplementary, and entirely optional on your part."

  I raise an eyebrow. "She told you that? When?"

  "This morning, around five," Mom says, sliding a stack of pancakes onto a plate. "She was heading out to meet with Mike, that homeless fellow you introduced us to. Something about final vigger instruction before she's away for three days."

  Of course. Grace operates on a schedule that makes military precision look sloppy. She probably has her entire day mapped out in fifteen-minute increments.

  "Where is she now?" I ask, accepting the plate Mom hands me.

  "She said she'd be back by eight to check over the equipment one final time," Dad replies. "Very thorough, our Grace."

  Our Grace. The casual possessive makes something warm flutter in my chest. Two weeks, and she's already become part of the family fabric—strange, intense, occasionally terrifying, but undeniably ours. Mine, assuming I ever actually ask if I can, what ever the word is for recipricateing the 'mine' Grace had expressed during the game last night. Actually meaning it, I mean. Stupid shovels.

  I dump an excessive amount of maple syrup on my pancakes, remembering how Grace had analyzed the caloric density of various breakfast options and declared this particular combination "optimally efficient for pre-expedition energy loading." Translation: eat a big breakfast because we'll be working hard later, and pancakes are good but I don't want to actually say that because I'm Grace and I don't just say things like that. Or something like that, anyway.

  "Are you sure you have everything you need?" Mom asks, sitting down with her own plate. "It's still February. The weather report says it might drop below freezing at night."

  "Grace has accounted for all possible meteorological variations," I reply, unconsciously mimicking Grace's precise diction. "And if we somehow encounter something she hasn't planned for, she'll improvise a solution that probably involves bone knives and sheer force of will."

  Dad laughs, though I catch the slight worry in his eyes. "You'll keep in touch? You have the satellite phone?"

  "In the right outer pocket of the main pack, with the solar charger," I confirm. "And we'll be less than twenty kilometers from the main road. If absolute disaster strikes, I can always just walk back to civilization."

  "Well, with Grace there, I'm not too worried," Mom says with surprising conviction. "That young woman seems capable of handling just about anything."

  I nod around a mouthful of pancake. If there's one thing I've learned about Grace, it's that she's relentlessly competent. Terrifyingly so, sometimes.

  After breakfast, I find myself hovering over the neatly packed equipment in the living room. Three backpacks of varying sizes, sleeping bags rated for extreme cold, a compact tent, cooking equipment, first aid supplies, navigation tools—all arranged with military precision. I consider checking it over, maybe repacking some items to show initiative.

  "Don't be stupid," I mutter to myself after a moment's consideration. "You don't even know what half this stuff is for. You'll just mess up her system and then feel shitty later when she comes back and re-packs it all again."

  The truth stings a bit. For all my enthusiasm about this trip, I'm still painfully aware of my limitations. Grace has been living this reality her entire life. I've been preparing for two weeks. The gap in our knowledge and abilities yawns wide as the distance between the earth and the sun.

  I'm still staring at the equipment, feeling increasingly useless, when the front door opens. Grace enters with her usual silent efficiency, moving like a shadow made solid. Her eyes immediately find me, then track to the untouched equipment.

  "Jason," she says, my name serving as both greeting and acknowledgment. "You are awake earlier than anticipated."

  "Couldn't sleep," I admit. "Too excited about the trip." Before: "also had a nightmare about, well, talking shovels."

  She nods once, accepting this explanation without comment. Her attention shifts to the equipment, and she begins a methodical inspection—checking zippers, testing straps, verifying contents against some mental inventory.

  I watch her work, fascinated as always by her precision. Each movement serves a purpose. No wasted energy, no unnecessary gestures. Her hands move with surgeon-like confidence, testing, adjusting, confirming.

  She checks the tent first, unfolding enough of it to examine seams and waterproofing without fully deploying it in our living room. The sleeping bags are next—she unzips each one partially, inspects the interior, tests the insulation between thumb and forefinger, then expertly refolds them to their original compact state. The cooking equipment receives similar scrutiny, with particular attention to the fuel canisters and ignition mechanism.

  As she works through the medical supplies—a kit three times larger than what Dave initially provided—her movements suddenly pause. Her head tilts slightly, nostrils flaring in that way I've come to recognize as her analyzing scent markers.

  "Your emotional state has shifted," she states, looking up at me with those intense green eyes. "Your scent contains notes of anxiety and self-doubt. This differs from your earlier excitement. Explain."

  Direct as always. I rub the back of my neck, embarrassed at being so transparent to her enhanced senses. "It's nothing. Just... pre-trip jitters."

  Grace's eyes narrow fractionally. "Imprecise. Your anxiety spiked specifically while watching me check the equipment. This suggests correlation." Before: "do not lie to me, Jason."

  I sigh, knowing she won't drop this until she gets a satisfactory explanation. "Fine. I was thinking about checking over the equipment myself so you wouldn't have to do it all. But then I realized I don't actually know enough about this stuff to be useful. I'd probably just mess up your system." I shrug, trying to make light of it. "Just feeling a bit useless, that's all."

  Grace processes this information with visible consideration. Her eyes track over the equipment, then back to me. "Your assessment is partially accurate," she says finally. "You lack the expertise to conduct a thorough pre-expedition equipment check."

  I wince slightly. Trust Grace to confirm my inadequacies with brutal precision.

  "However," she continues, "I would have verified all equipment regardless of your involvement. This is standard ranger protocol. No operative, regardless of experience level, deploys without triple-checking essential materials."

  She rises from her crouched position beside the medical kit, moving to stand directly in front of me. Her posture is perfect as always, spine straight, shoulders squared, feet precisely shoulder-width apart.

  "Additionally," she says, "teaching you proper equipment assessment is part of our training objectives. I cannot reasonably expect you to know procedures I have not yet demonstrated, Jason."

  I blink, caught off guard by what, from Grace, amounts to extraordinary reassurance. "Oh. That... makes sense."

  "Yes," she agrees simply. "It does."

  She returns to her inspection, but I notice she now narrates each check, explaining what she's looking for and why. "Equipment familiarity begins with understanding tactical requirements," she says, testing the tension on a strap. "Each item must be evaluated based on function, condition, and necessity relative to expected conditions."

  I realize she's already begun teaching me, turning a simple gear check into my first lesson. Something warm unfurls in my chest—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper I'm not ready to name.

  For the next forty minutes, I watch and listen as Grace provides a crash course in expedition preparation. She explains weight distribution principles for backpack loading, demonstrates how to check fabric integrity for potential failure points, and details the rationale behind redundant systems for critical functions like fire-starting and water purification.

  By the time my parents come downstairs again, I'm actively participating—holding items for inspection, asking questions that Grace answers with her characteristic precision. The anxiety that plagued me earlier has receded, replaced by growing confidence and genuine interest.

  "All packed and ready?" Dad asks, eyeing the now-reorganized equipment with an engineer's appreciation for efficient systems.

  "Yes," Grace confirms. "Equipment checks are complete and satisfactory. Weather conditions remain within optimal parameters. We will depart in approximately seventeen minutes."

  Mom smiles at Grace's precise timing. "Well, that gives us just enough time for goodbyes." She opens her arms to me, and I step into her embrace. "Be careful out there, honey. Listen to Grace."

  "Always do," I murmur against her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.

  Dad claps me on the shoulder when Mom releases me. "Have fun. Learn a lot." His eyes crinkle with an unexpected twinkle. "And try not to let Grace intimidate you too much when she's in her element."

  "Too late for that," I reply with a laugh. "She intimidates me just explaining the correct way to fold socks."

  Grace observes this exchange with her usual careful attention, head tilted slightly as she processes the family dynamics. I've noticed she pays particular attention to interactions between me and my parents, like she's studying a foreign language by immersion.

  "I will ensure Jason's safety," she states, addressing my parents directly. "And his educational progress. He shows above-average aptitude for vigger manipulation and tactical adaptation."

  Coming from Grace, this is practically effusive praise. I feel my face warming slightly.

  "We know he's in good hands," Mom says, surprising me by extending a brief, light touch to Grace's arm—the first time I've seen her initiate physical contact with Grace. Even more surprising, Grace doesn't tense or pull away. Progress, indeed.

  The goodbyes conclude with final reminders about the satellite phone and promises to check in each evening. Grace and I begin loading the equipment into Dad's truck, which he's allowing us to use for the expedition. The process is efficient, with Grace directing placement for optimal weight distribution and secure transportation.

  "I will drive," Grace states as we finish loading. It's not a question.

  "Fine by me," I agree, handing her the keys. "My new vision's great for most things, but road signs and traffic lights are still invisible to me. Also, well, the lines on the rode."

  She accepts the keys with a nod and moves to the driver's side. I slide into the passenger seat, feeling a flutter of excitement and anticipation as the engine rumbles to life. Three days in the wilderness with Grace. Learning survival skills, vigger techniques, maybe even understanding more about the mysterious woman who's completely transformed my life in just two weeks.

  As we pull away from the house, my parents waving from the porch, I can't help smiling. Whatever happens in the forest, I know one thing for certain—it's going to be an adventure unlike anything I've experienced before.

  And if I'm lucky, it won't involve talking shovels with strong opinions about anything involveing forest floors.