---Sarah---

  The electronic chime announces George's departure as I'm reorganizing the latest shipment of trail runners. His booming voice echoes back through the door—"WHERE'D ALL THE GOOD FIGHTS GO?"—loud enough to rattle the display cases. The eight-foot dragon-man is always a sight with his emerald scales catching the afternoon light, golden horns curving back from his reptilian skull, and enough armor to outfit a medieval army. That sword strapped across his back probably weighs more than most people, but he carries it like it's made of foam. He's become a semi-regular over the past few months, browsing our strength equipment without ever buying anything, though somehow his visits always leave the place feeling more energetic. I don't know what the hell he did to make himself like that, but. Well, he's George.

  I straighten up from the inventory count, stretching muscles that have been cramped in the same position for twenty minutes. My lower back protests slightly—too much time bent over, not enough movement to counteract the static positioning. It's the kind of stiffness that would never happen during my morning runs, where every muscle stays engaged and fluid. Even after three years working retail, my body still craves the constant motion that defines my actual life.

  The weak Febuary sun filters through the storefront windows, casting pale rectangles of light across the polished concrete floor. Outside, Toronto's winter bite is sharp enough that frost still clings to shadowed corners even at two in the afternoon. The temperature hit minus eight this morning during my run, cold enough that my breath formed ice crystals on my balaclava within the first kilometer. Winter training means full winter gear—thermal layers, ice-gripping soles, and the kind of serious cold-weather equipment that separates dedicated runners from the fucking casuals, though I'd never call them that outwardly. I'm a professional, after all.

  I crouch behind the counter checking more inventory numbers when the chime sounds again. These footsteps are different—controlled, deliberate, each placement calculated with the kind of precision that makes my runner's brain automatically assess biomechanics. Whoever just entered moves like they understand exactly how their body functions in space. It's the kind of fluid, efficient gait that speaks of serious athletic training, though something about the rhythm suggests combat conditioning rather than endurance sports.

  Rising from my crouch, I get my first look at the woman who's just walked in. She's maybe five-six, compact but carrying herself with a presence that seems to expand beyond her physical dimensions. Olive skin, short black hair framing a face with cheekbones that could cut glass, and eyes the deep green of old forest shadows. Those eyes sweep the store with systematic thoroughness, cataloging details in the seconds it takes me to fully straighten.

  Her movement patterns fascinate me from a biomechanical perspective. Every step demonstrates perfect weight distribution, optimal joint alignment, and the kind of controlled balance that usually comes from years of dedicated training. But there's something more primal underneath the technical precision—a predatory awareness that suggests her physical skills extend well beyond conventional athletics.

  Her clothing is practical—dark pants and a fitted top that doesn't hide obvious muscle definition. Everything about her screams trained professional, though not police or military exactly. Something more elemental, like danger is her natural state rather than something she learned. The fabric looks expensive but functional, designed for movement rather than fashion, though notably she's not wearing a coat despite the Febuary cold, which suggests either impressive cold tolerance or recent arrival from somewhere warmer.

  She approaches carrying destroyed running shoes, soles shredded beyond anything I've seen from normal wear. These aren't worn out—they're demolished to the point that I'm surprised that her feet aren't harmed.

  "Good afternoon," she says with formal precision, each word carefully chosen. Her voice carries a slight accent I can't quite place, something that adds edges to English consonants without being obviously foreign. "I am Grace. I am here to acquire new shoes for Jason Stone, as these are no longer suitable for his use."

  Jason Stone. The blind guy with the friendly little dog who lives somewhere in the neighborhood. I see them during my morning runs sometimes, usually hear Dawson's collar before I spot them. Jason always calls out friendly greetings when I pass, though I think it's more because he hears someone than he actually knows it's me. His voice carries that particular warmth some people develop when they've learned to connect with others primarily through sound and verbal cues. Nice guy who seems to have adapted well to his circumstances, though, well. Don't know how I'd live if I lost my sight.

  Still, everything I know about Jason suggests he's fairly reclusive. The few times I've seen him interacting with neighbors, he keeps conversations brief and polite, maintaining the kind of social boundaries that suggest someone who values privacy. The idea of him sending someone to buy running shoes seems out of character, especially someone who clearly doesn't just know him casually.

  I pick up the destroyed shoes, examining the damage with the systematic attention I'd apply to analyzing gait problems. The wear patterns make no sense. The entire sole has been ground away, but not in the typical heel-to-toe progression you see with proper running form. This looks like someone sprinted on concrete until the rubber simply disintegrated, leaving holes worn completely through multiple layers of sole material.

  "What happened to these?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. My training has taught me to read wear patterns like injury maps—heel strikers show distinctive posterior damage, overpronators wear the medial edge, supinators destroy the lateral side. "I've seen wear and tear before, but this is..." I gesture at holes worn completely through the sole. "You don't get this kind of damage from normal running."

  The destruction suggests forces and friction levels that should be impossible for human locomotion. Even the most severe gait problems, even running on the harshest surfaces, don't typically create this kind of comprehensive structural failure. It's like the shoes were used for something they weren't designed to handle, stressed beyond their engineering tolerances.

  Grace tilts her head, considering my question with the same focused attention she gave the store layout. Her green eyes study my face with an intensity that makes me suddenly aware I'm being evaluated according to criteria I don't understand. After a pause that stretches longer than comfortable, she responds: "We ran."

  I wait for elaboration, but none comes. Grace watches me with those intense green eyes, apparently considering her two-word answer complete. Her stillness has the quality of a predator at rest—not relaxed, but conserving energy while maintaining readiness for immediate action.

  "Okay, but you don't get wear patterns like this"—I point to the shredded heel, the missing forefoot section, the abraded side panels—"from just running. This looks like hours of sprinting on concrete, or maybe severe form issues, or..." I trail off because honestly, I have no idea what could cause this destruction.

  My mind runs through possibilities: treadmill malfunction that kept the belt moving too fast, some kind of training drill on abrasive surfaces, maybe a medical condition that affects gait mechanics. But none of these explanations account for the comprehensive nature of the damage. It's like the shoes were systematically destroyed by sustained high-impact contact with rough surfaces.

  Grace's expression shifts to something resembling thoughtful evaluation, as if she's calculating how much information to provide. Her fingers tap against her thigh in a pattern that looks unconscious but probably isn't—everything about her suggests deliberate control over physical expressions.

  "We ran fast," she clarifies as if this explains everything. "Approximately sixty-five kilometers per hour. I was concerned Jason would have difficulty maintaining pace, even with my enhancements."

  My brain stutters. Sixty-five kilometers per hour isn't running speed—that's highway speed. The fastest recorded human sprint tops out around forty-five kilometers per hour, and that's for maybe fifty meters with world-class athletes in perfect conditions. Sixty-five kilometers per hour sustained long enough to destroy running shoes like this would require... well, it would require not being human.

  And what enhancements? The way she says it suggests technical modifications rather than training improvements, like she's talking about upgrading equipment rather than developing natural capabilities. Something about how she phrases it makes me think of military applications, though I can't imagine what technology could enable that kind of speed without killing the user.

  "Right," I say, focusing on practical matters rather than physics-defying claims. My retail training kicks in—when customers make impossible claims, address the parts you can help with and avoid arguing about the parts that don't make sense. "Normally I'd recommend Jason come in himself for proper fitting. Everyone's foot shape is different, and poorly fitted running shoes can cause injuries. There's gait analysis, arch support considerations, pronation patterns—"

  I'm warming to my subject, falling into the familiar rhythm of explaining fitting procedures. This is territory I understand completely, where my knowledge and experience provide solid ground. "The size marked on the shoe isn't enough information. I need to watch him walk, maybe have him run on the treadmill, check how his current shoes wear, measure both feet since most people have slight size differences—"

  Even as I'm talking, part of my brain is still processing what Grace said about sixty-five kilometers per hour. That kind of speed would generate enormous heat from friction, which might explain the comprehensive sole destruction. But humans can't run at those speeds without mechanical assistance, and mechanical assistance usually means vehicles, not... Enhancements.

  Grace raises one hand slightly, a gesture that manages to politely interrupt without being rude. The movement is economical, precisely calibrated to achieve the desired effect without wasted energy. Though, everything about her body language suggests someone accustomed to making minimal inputs produce maximum results.

  "I brought the shoes as they have the size marked upon them. I will not bring Jason Stone incorrectly sized footware."

  The way she uses his full name is interesting—formal, like referring to someone with a title rather than just a neighbor. Her tone suggests this isn't a casual favor between friends but something more systematic, like completing a mission rather than running an errand. There's duty in how she says his name, the kind of obligation that goes beyond simple courtesy.

  "I understand your concern, but shoe sizing is more complicated than label numbers. Different brands fit differently, running shoes need specific features based on individual biomechanics—"

  I'm about to launch into my standard explanation of how proper fitting prevents injuries, reduces energy waste, and improves performance. It's information I've delivered hundreds of times, refined through experience with customers who think all running shoes are interchangeable. But something in Grace's posture suggests she's not a typical customer who needs education about footwear science.

  "You are curious," she observes. Not a question.

  The directness catches me off guard. Most people dance around that kind of psychological observation, but Grace states it like noting the weather. Her green eyes study my face with the systematic attention of someone cataloging responses for future reference.

  "Well, yeah," I admit. My natural honesty overrides any attempt to deflect. "I know Jason from around the neighborhood. Worthy comes in sometimes, mentions him occasionally. But everything I've heard suggests he's pretty much a homebody. The idea of him running hard enough to destroy shoes like this is..." I gesture at the shredded footwear. "Surprising."

  Jason's daily routine, from my observations, centers around careful navigation of familiar territory with Dawson. I see them on predictable routes, moving at measured paces that prioritize safety over speed. The idea of him pushing physical limits hard enough to destroy running shoes contradicts everything I've observed about him. Also, it would destroy Dawson's paws, and if nothing else, the man will not do anything to harm that dog. I've seen him get hurt for the dog, like a good human should, on at least one occasion.

  Grace studies me, those green eyes seeming to catalog information I'm not sure I'm providing. Her evaluation feels comprehensive, like she's assessing not just my words but my motivations, my reliability, my potential value or threat. When she speaks again, her voice carries the quality of someone choosing to share rather than simply responding.

  "Jason brought me inside when I would have otherwise died," she says with matter-of-fact directness. "As such, I am paying back that debt. Now. Can you provide what I need, or would I be better served going elsewhere, shopkeeper?"

  The statement hits harder than expected. Not dramatic or emotional, just simple fact delivered with the same precision she applies to everything else. Someone saved her life, so now she's returning the favor by handling practical tasks like shoe shopping. It's transactional in a way that suggests a complicated story I'm definitely not going to pry into. Two years ago? Yeah. Now? I've worked retail long enough to know better.

  But the phrasing—"would have otherwise died"—suggests circumstances more serious than medical emergency or accident. Combined with her obvious combat conditioning and the formal way she approaches what should be a simple transaction, it paints a picture of someone whose life operates according to rules I don't fully understand.

  "I can get you what you need," I say, because the woman standing before me seems like the type who could find another running store if necessary, and I'd rather keep the business. Plus, there's something about her absolute certainty regarding debt and obligation that I respect, even if I don't understand the context.

  My runner's brain automatically starts calculating options. Jason's shoe size, brand preferences, the kind of mileage requirements that would necessitate replacement, terrain considerations for Toronto's mixed surfaces. But those destroyed soles keep nagging at my professional assessment—no normal running pattern creates that kind of damage.

  Before I can move toward the shoe displays, the door chime announces another customer. Gulp walks in with that characteristic swaying gait that screams perpetually stoned. He's one of my semi-regulars, though hard to forget once you've met him. Six feet tall and lanky, translucent skin showing blue-green veins pulsing underneath, hair that moves like it has a mind of its own—dark, oily strands curling without any breeze. Purple eyes that never focus on anything specific, always looking over my shoulder like something more interesting is happening just out of view. on the one hand, he's weared as fuck. On the other hand, this is fucking Toronto, and I've had stranger then a perpetually stoned man and a man who turned himself into a dragon and who really, really wants to fight someone named Harald Armory Jamison, who ever the hell that is.

  The familiar smell hits immediately—ocean brine mixed with fresh bread and something chemical that makes my sinuses tingle. His usual baggy clothes look unwashed, beat-up sneakers squelching with each step, pockets bulging with food in various stages of consumption. Gulp's one of those customers who makes me grateful for ventilation systems, but he's also funny as hell, stopped a shoplifter that one time, and, well. He's Gulp.

  "Duuuude," he says in that dreamy, wet voice like talking through cotton candy. "This place has really good energy, man. All warm and helpful and stuff." Those unfocused purple eyes drift from me to Grace and back. "Oh, hey Sarah!"

  I've always just thought of him as a funny guy who's always baked. Harmless enough, usually wanders around looking at things while making appreciative noises, occasionally buys energy bars or asks random questions about equipment. His presence always makes the store feel slightly surreal, like reality has shifted just enough to accommodate something that doesn't quite fit normal parameters.

  He pulls a chocolate chip cookie from one of his many pockets, taking a bite before his gaze settles on Grace with dreamy attention. Crumbs scatter as he chews with obvious satisfaction, completely oblivious to normal social boundaries about eating in retail stores.

  "Dude, you look totally tasty," he says to Grace like commenting on weather. His voice carries that spacey quality of someone whose thought processes operate according to altered chemistry. "Mind if I eat you? It'd be super chill, and I'd totally help you with whatever you need first. Square the cosmic karma and all that, you know?"

  He turns fully to Grace now with that absent smile, crumbs clinging to his mouth, waiting for her response like this is a perfectly reasonable conversation. Which, for him, it kind of is.

  "So what do you say? Want to be a snack?"

  ---Jason---

  I settle back into the couch, legs stretched out, hands resting behind my head while I stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life. The house feels different with Grace gone, quieter but somehow more charged, like the air before a thunderstorm when you can feel the electricity building in the atmosphere. It's strange how quickly I've gotten used to her presence, the subtle sounds, though never footsteps, she makes moving through the house, the way she positions herself to watch doorways and windows even when she's supposedly relaxing.

  Dawson appears from somewhere, probably the kitchen where he's been conducting his eternal vigil for crumbs that might materialize through sheer force of canine optimism. He launches himself onto the couch with the dedication of a furry missile, all thirty pounds of mini Bernedoodle sprawling across my lap with the absolute confidence that this is exactly where he belongs. His lustrous golden fur catches the afternoon light streaming through the living room window, and those warm brown eyes look up at me with the kind of unconditional affection that makes me understand why people have been keeping dogs for thousands of years.

  "Good boy," I murmur, automatically starting to scratch his belly because that's what good humans do for their dogs. Dawson's tail thumps against the couch arm in that rhythmic way that says he's achieved peak contentment, his eyes closing in that blissful expression dogs get when the belly rubs hit just the right spot. There's something deeply comforting about this routine, this simple interaction that requires nothing more complex than fingers and fur and the mutual understanding that this is time well spent.

  But my mind keeps circling back to the same nagging question that's been bothering me since Grace left. Why'd I give her my credit card? The laptop, okay, that makes perfect sense. It was absolutely adorable watching her read the First Contact web serial like that, hunched over the screen with that intense concentration she gets when she's learning something new. Her whole face changes when she's focused on absorbing information, becomes softer somehow, less like she's calculating threat assessments and more like she's just a woman discovering something fascinating about this strange new world she's found herself in.

  But the credit card? Christ, what was I thinking? It's not that I think she'd steal it, exactly. Grace doesn't strike me as the type to run off to some casino and blow ten grand on slot machines or book a flight to somewhere exotic just because she can. She's too practical for that, too focused on survival and necessity rather than frivolous spending. The woman carries knives that drink blood and has enough magical capability to run faster than a truck—I doubt she's particularly interested in retail therapy.

  But she could use it if she thought she needed to, and let's face it, she probably could survive better than I can, at least initially. The woman can outrun vehicles, has enough weaponry on her person to equip a small army, or can make enough in short order considering how she made that bra thing earlier, and possesses combat skills that make professional soldiers look like kindergarteners playing with foam swords. What the hell am I going to do if she decides the credit card is a better survival tool than sticking around in this house with some guy who was blind until a few days ago?

  The thing is, I think doesn't mean I know. I think she won't steal it doesn't change the fundamental fact that she absolutely could if circumstances demanded it. And Grace's circumstances seem to demand a lot of things that normal people would never consider necessary for daily survival. When your baseline existence involves being ready for combat at any moment and evaluating every situation for potential threats, maybe taking someone's credit card starts looking like just being reasonable about not dying rather than theft.

  Laptops can be tracked—that thing where Mom and Dad's phones got stolen a few years back and pictures of the thieves and their house popped up on Mom's computer made that clear enough. Modern electronics have GPS chips and find-my-device functions and all sorts of digital breadcrumbs that make them recoverable if someone really wants to put in the effort. Credit cards though? If she decides to run with it, or just decides she can survive better by using it for supplies and resources, which let's face it she probably can at least initially, what the fuck am I going to do? Call the police and report that my interdimensional magical warrior house guest stole my Visa?

  Once again, I don't think she'll steal it, but what good is that? I don't think doesn't change the practical reality of the situation. Yes, I trust her on some level, but trust and capability are two entirely different things, and Grace has capability in spades.

  My thoughts get dragged back to that fucking game, and I can feel my mood darkening as I remember what I read on that screen. The one with me as one of the units. Commander Jason Stone, of House Astrid. Yeah, I know how this shit goes because I've read enough stories and watched enough movies. You click on something like that, especially when it's literally you staring back from a computer screen, and next thing you know you're waking up in a bio-pod or some shit and now you're that Jason Stone. Living in a reality where war spans star systems and humans are augmented with bio-tech and artificial intelligence runs major political factions and survival depends on industrial efficiency rather than basic human decency.

  Aside from the fact that I absolutely do not want that kind of life, what would happen to Grace if I wasn't around? More practically, what would happen to that death oath if the other end of it—that being me—is literally in another reality entirely? Would she just drop dead from magical feedback? Would the oath transfer to wherever I ended up, dragging her across dimensions against her will? Would it snap her back to whatever hellish reality she came from, leaving her to face whatever events originally got her sent here alone? None of those options sound particularly appealing, and the last one makes my stomach clench with something that might be protective anger, which, considering we've only known each other for less than a week and the most bonding we ever did was going to a TTRPG game together that one time, that, let's be honest Grace might not want to go again, is mildly concerning.

  I decide to not think about that particular nightmare scenario and go back to scratching Dawson's tummy with more focus than the task really requires. Dawson's a good dog. Dawson doesn't come with interdimensional complications or magical binding oaths that could catastrophically malfunction if I get sucked into a video game. Dawson's biggest concern in life is whether someone might drop food on the kitchen floor and whether the tummy rubs will continue for an adequate amount of time.

  My phone buzzes on the coffee table, the vibration making a soft rattling sound against the wood surface. The voiceover, once I pick the phone up, says Worthy Stone along with a little Australian flag emoji he insisted I add to his contact info when he moved to Sydney for his engineering job, even though I couldn't see it then and still can't see it now. The gesture was typical Worthy—considerate and thoughtful while being completely pointless for someone who can't actually see emoji. I swipe to accept the FaceTime audio call, grateful for the distraction from my spiraling thoughts if nothing else.

  "G'day, asshole," Worthy's voice comes through with that slight echo that tells me he's probably in his apartment, which means he's calling me at what has to be early as fuck his time. The background noise suggests he's moving around, probably getting ready for work or maybe just getting home from it—I can never keep the time difference straight.

  "Hey yourself, dickhead," I respond with a grin. "How's Australia treating you?"

  Worthy launches into one of his enthusiastic rants about Australian engineering standards and how different the construction industry is down there compared to Canada. He's excited about some project involving bridge reinforcement that uses techniques he's never seen before, and I can practically hear him gesturing even though this is audio only. He always gets animated when he talks about engineering, his voice rising and falling as he describes stress loads and material properties and whatever other technical details make his brain light up with professional excitement.

  The conversation is comfortingly normal, a reminder that some things remain constant even when your world gets turned upside down by magical warriors and interdimensional travel. Worthy is still Worthy, still passionate about construction and engineering, still calling from the other side of the world just to check in because that's the kind of brother he is.

  "Had a good game of War of Great Houses last night with some of the guys from the construction crew," he mentions offhandedly, like it's nothing more significant than discussing the weather.

  "Hold up," I interrupt him mid-sentence about Australian building codes, my voice sharper than I intended. "What do you mean, War of Great Houses?"

  "The card game, man. You know, the one with all the factions." There's a pause, and I can hear him probably taking a drink of something, maybe coffee if he's getting ready for work. "The necromancers, those creepy doctors from House of Flesh, the werewolves from Wolf House, that minor faction with the fucking munchy infiltrator drones that are always high, and fucking Long watch. Fuck, I need to tell you about house Long Watch, but not now, will take too long."

  He continues talking with the casual familiarity of someone who's played the game multiple times. "The Tummy, right? Those bio-ships full of stoned organisms that just want to eat everything biological? They've got these infiltrator units called Munchies—perpetually high humanoid things that stand around swaying and telling everyone how tasty they look. They're like, 'Dude, we're totally gonna eat you, but don't stress about it, man, we'll help you with whatever first.' They're supposed to be infiltrators, but they're so obviously stoned that nobody takes the eating threats seriously. The whole faction is just these laid-back cosmic horror entities who view the universe as one big buffet but are too chill to be properly threatening."

  The description should be funny, but there's something deeply unsettling about hearing Worthy describe these factions with such casual knowledge considering I'm one of the fucking units. He pauses again, and when he continues, his voice carries a note of something I can't quite identify.

  "I always found it weird that one of the units was, well, you."

  I grunt, feeling something cold settle in my stomach like I've swallowed a particularly large ice cube. "Yeah. That's... weird."

  "What's wrong?" Worthy's voice shifts, becoming more concerned. "You sound different. Are you high again?"

  "It's not Friday," I point out, which is when I usually indulge in weed. It's a routine I've maintained for a while now—Friday evening, after work, when I can afford to be completely useless for several hours without consequences.

  "Well, no, it's not, but you sound..." He trails off, searching for words. "I don't know, different. And that's usually only because you're high as balls. There's something in your voice, man. You sound like you've seen some shit."

  I consider this for a few seconds, wondering how much my voice is betraying about, well. I met a woman with magic powers who can run faster than a truck and is bound to me with a death oath. She fixed my eyes with some kind of healing magic, is now living in my house, and she's hot enough to make my brain short-circuit when she walks around in my borrowed clothes. Yeah, that would definitely be the kind of story someone on really good weed would think up. The kind of elaborate fantasy that sounds plausible when you're stoned but ridiculous when you try to explain it to someone else. Not that I'm good at explaining things generally anyway, and especially when a good amount of the reasons I'm attracted to Grace is because she doesn't do any bullshit, though she is also compitent and hot in a primal sort of way. Grace sort of way? Does that count since there's only one Grace?

  "I found the game on the internet," I explain, deciding not to mention Grace because once again, it sounds like I'm tripping absolute balls. "The strategy game version."

  "No shit?" Worthy sounds genuinely excited now, his voice picking up that enthusiasm he gets when he discovers something new and interesting. "Maybe you can play now? I mean, we could do online matches, figure out the time difference thing. It'd be awesome to finally have you in one of our games."

  Something warms in my chest at his consideration, at the idea that he's been thinking about ways we could do something together despite being on opposite sides of the planet. Worthy has always been good at that kind of thing, finding ways to maintain connections across distance and circumstance. It's one of the things I've always admired about him—his ability to make people feel included even when geography and, well, sight makes it complicated.

  "Yeah," I say, smiling despite everything. "Yeah, maybe."

  "Cool. Listen, it's early as fuck here and I need to get some sleep, but there's some couple next door who are fucking and screaming and won't shut up. It's like listening to a nature documentary about mating rituals, except less educational and more annoying. I might have to invest in some serious noise-canceling headphones."

  I decide that this is entirely too much information about my brother's living situation and the architectural shortcomings of Australian apartment buildings. "Good luck with that, man. Get some sleep."

  I end the call and sit there for a moment, processing what just happened. Worthy knows about the game. Not just knows about it—he's been playing it, treating it like a normal card game with normal rules and normal consequences. The fact that I'm apparently a unit in this game doesn't seem to strike him as particularly unusual, just mildly interesting. Which either means I'm overthinking this whole situation, or everyone else is dramatically underthinking it.

  Would Grace like the game? The thought occurs to me as I'm still trying to process the conversation with Worthy. She seemed interested when she was watching me look through the different houses earlier, and she definitely enjoyed the tabletop RPG we played. Her tactical mind would probably appreciate the strategic elements, the resource management and long-term planning that these kinds of games require. She's competitive enough to enjoy trying to outmaneuver opponents, and she has the kind of analytical thinking that would excel at complex game systems.

  Shrugging, I carefully move Dawson off my lap, earning a look of profound betrayal from the dog. His expression suggests I've committed a grave breach of the human-dog social contract, but he'll forgive me as soon as I come back with the laptop. Dogs are remarkably good at letting go of grudges when more interesting things present themselves. Or, you know, I give him a dentastick. Things do smell like bacon after all.

  I go grab my laptop from my room, come back to the couch and open it. It's still on the game's homepage. Of course it's still there—it's not like anyone went into my room when I wasn't here, unless Dawson somehow developed opposable thumbs and hacking skills while I was muttering on the other side of the house, and Dawson doesn't have hands anyway. Or can read, to my knowledge. The browser also shows tabs for the First Contact web serial Grace was reading earlier—book three of Ralts Bloodthorne's work that Grace has been consuming with the intensity of someone discovering literature for the first time. Which I also find adorible, but let's not get sidetracked.

  Dawson immediately jumps back up, settling across my legs with renewed determination to claim his territory. His body heat seeps through my jeans, and he positions himself so that any attempt to use the laptop will require his cooperation. It's a power play disguised as affection, and it's completely effective. Smart dog.

  I flip through the various houses again, considering them from Grace's perspective rather than my own. House of Bone, Ocien, might work for her—it's solid, defensive, focused on keeping hammer and anvil streams intact and operational. Very tactical, very practical, with straightforward strategies that don't rely on complex magical interactions or resource juggling even if she said she didn't want to play it. House of Flesh, absolutely not. Grace has enough body horror in her life without playing a faction that specializes in biological modification and fleshcrafting. The woman carries knives that drink blood and came from a dimension where survival apparently requires constant vigilance against threats that include spirits of cold, things that burrow up from the ground and eat you, and what ever a fucking Claudatch is. Regardless, she probably doesn't need entertainment that involves more biological manipulation, and she made it pretty clear she didn't want to play this house earlier anyway.

  House boom Boom could be interesting, but they require keeping all four elemental casters balanced and coordinated, which seems like the kind of micromanagement that would frustrate rather than entertain. It's the kind of faction that rewards precise timing and perfect execution but punishes mistakes harshly. Also, there's the other reason I'm probably not going to play them, which is that anything with anti-magic capabilities—and there's probably a minor faction with that specialty somewhere in the game—would gut them completely. A faction that relies entirely on magical coordination becomes worthless when someone can just go, 'no' and turn off the magic. Curious how Grace would play them, since she said the house appealed to her, though.

  I pause on House Red Angel, reading through their description more carefully. Vampire samurai. Could be interesting. They're not quite solid enough for my usual playstyle, which tends toward straightforward tactics and overwhelming force, but their Wardens—the traditional naginata specialists who focus on defensive positioning and formation fighting—could hold the line if they're deployed properly. And their Scouts, the ninja specialists who handle reconnaissance and mobility, can do proper scouting work rather than just being glorified light infantry. Grace might like this house, actually. The combination of supernatural abilities and disciplined warrior culture seems like it would appeal to her tactical mind and her appreciation for martial excellence. Even if the ninjas appear to be what we think of as ninjas, not, well, no, not getting into that.

  The Tummy... I take a quick look at their description again just because. They're perpetually stoned bio-ships full of organisms that exist in a constant state of chemical euphoria, drifting through space viewing the entire universe as one massive cosmic buffet. The terrifying thing about them though is that the more they eat, the more they evolve. Every meal teaches them something new, every failed attempt to consume something makes them figure out new ways to eat other things. They're like the galaxy's most laid-back apex predators, constantly getting better at being themselves through pure stoned persistence. Like that one time I wanted a container of pringles at two-thirty Saturday morning, but, you know, the primgles are people.

  They're not even playable though, marked as NPC only, which is kind of a shame. They could be fun to play when high—there's something absurdly appealing about the idea of playing a faction that's too stoned to properly threaten anyone but somehow keeps accidentally becoming more dangerous through sheer persistence while being high myself. The idea of commanding bio-ships that approach combat with the attitude of "Dude, we're totally gonna eat you, but don't stress about it, man", well. It's fucking funny. With Grace here though, drugs are off the table. She seems like the type who would view any form of chemical impairment as a tactical disadvantage, and I got enough to worry about without her decideing to leave because the guide she's found decided to get high and kept trying to hug her. Which, let's be fare, I'd probably do. So, yeah. No drugs for me.

  I move back to House Astrid and look it over again, reading the description more carefully this time. They're industrial, focused on resource extraction and manufacturing efficiency. No magical bullshit, no creepy science, no admittedly probably attractive vampire samurai women who combine supernatural abilities with ancient warrior traditions. Just practical engineering and human adaptability, the kind of straightforward approach that builds civilizations rather than just conquering them. They'd be a solid beginner faction to play, straightforward enough to learn the game mechanics without getting overwhelmed by special abilities and complex resource management chains. Also, they have fucking rumbas with guns on them as war machines, and come on. Gun-Rumbas? Also, Gause-weaponry armed gun rumbas.

  It's just that there's fucking Commander Jason Stone staring back at me from the screen. I click on his profile again, reading the discription that's unmistakably me but somehow different—older, more serious, wearing military dress I don't recognize. The personality profile listed below matches my actual capabilities with disturbing accuracy, like someone has been watching me and taking detailed notes about my personality and potential. Maybee I shouldn't be so flippant about no-one going into my room while I'm out of it if this shit's going to pop up. Or maybee I'm just overthinking shit like normal and should just go with, 'monkey brain happy when hearing boom boom noises and heavally-armed weapons platform that also clean.'

  According to the profile, he's House Astrid's humanity—the human element that balances their AI leadership and technological focus. A bio drone engineered to provide the intuitive understanding and creative problem-solving that pure artificial intelligence can't match after Astrid shoved in a random soul that just happened to also be Jason Stone, enhanced with bio-vat augmentations but fundamentally unchanged in his core psychology. The description goes into unsettling detail about his integration with the Astrid consciousness, his role as the perfect human complement to artificial intelligence command structures, his enhanced capabilities that make him incredibly effective while still trying to figure out, well. Why him. Also his odly spasific vissiral hatrid of the police for some reason.

  There's something deeply disturbing about reading a detailed psychological profile of yourself written by someone you've never met, describing capabilities you didn't know you had and a personality assessment that's more accurate than most people who've known me for years could manage. It's like looking into a mirror that shows not just your reflection but your thoughts and motivations laid bare for analysis.

  I shrug and bookmark the page, then close the tab. The next tab in the stack is the First Contact web serial Grace was reading earlier—book three of Ralts Bloodthorne's work that Grace has been consuming with the intensity of someone discovering literature for the first time. Which, well it's still fucking adorible. I decide to leave it there since Grace, as far as I know can't navigate browser history. I'm going to have to teach her how to do that at some point, along with about a million other things about living in this world that don't involve combat or survival. Basic computer skills, how to use a smartphone, understanding social media, navigating online banking—the list of mundane life skills that most people take for granted but that would be completely foreign to someone from another dimension. Granted, Grace probably takes for granted squirl cooking, building fires and killing things that try to eat her, so there's that?

  I close the laptop and return it to my room, then come back to the couch where Dawson has somehow managed to spread out across the entire thing despite being just slightly too large to be a lapdog. It's impressive, really, the way he can make thirty pounds of mini Bernedoodle take up the space usually occupied by a much larger creature while still leaveing just enough room for me if I, you know, pet him. Smart dog.

  My phone buzzes again, voiceover displaying an unknown number. Fucking scammers. I decline the call and settle back onto the couch, working around Dawson's sprawled form. He shifts slightly to accommodate me, but makes it clear that this is a generous concession on his part rather than an obligation. Snorting a laugh, I start scratching his tummy again. Good dog.

  I wonder when Grace will get back. She said she was going to get me shoes, but knowing Grace, that could mean anything from actually buying shoes to conducting some kind of surveillance mission on the neighborhood to ensure our security perimeter is up to her standards first. The woman treats a trip to the corner store like a military operation, probably evaluating escape routes and threat vectors while deciding between different brands of cereal. Though she did mention something about getting me new running shoes, since mine are completely destroyed from our last run together. The soles are literally falling apart, held together by nothing more than optimism and the memory of what they used to be. I was too freeked about the hole, I'm a fucking character in a game to really focus on what she was saying, though. Which is why I just gave her my credit card. Will have to apolojize to her for that when she gets back since she didn't deserve it.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  But that's just Grace. Everything is evaluated through the lens of survival and tactical advantage. Even something as simple as grocery shopping becomes an exercise in threat assessment and resource acquisition. It should be exhausting, but somehow it's not. Maybe because under all that hypervigilance, I can see glimpses of who she might be if she didn't have to constantly prepare for danger. Like when she was reading the First Contact web serial on my laptop, completely absorbed in Author Bloodthorne's work with the kind of focused intensity most people reserve for things they're passionate about, or when she discovers something unexpected, or when she makes breakfast because she feels like she owes me for using the hot tub.

  My phone stays quiet, and the house stays empty except for me and Dawson. I scratch behind his ears and try not to think about interdimensional strategy games or credit cards or what happens to death oaths when one party gets sucked into alternate realities. Try not to think about the implications of games that include real people as units, or what it means that my brother has been casually playing something that features me as a character for, probably years. Definitly don't think about the first woman who's looked at me like I'm actually worth something to my knowledge decideing to fuck off because she decided that the credit card I gave her will let her survive better then said previously blind man who's just doing things any other decent human would. Like bring the frozen woman he litirally stumbled over into his house, then not useing the fucking death oath he got by doing that to command her to do anything because he's a fucking human being and not an abomonation that needs to be destroyed with fire.

  Instead, I focus on the simple fact that when Grace gets back, she'll probably have questions about the game, and maybe we can figure out which house she'd want to play. It's a normal thought, the kind of thing normal people think about when they're planning to spend time with someone they care about. The kind of simple anticipation that makes waiting feel worthwhile rather than just empty time passing, or worrying if the woman in question is just going to decide that the credit card is worth more than the blind guy who just did what anyone else would have done.

  The fact that the someone in question is a woman from another dimension who pulls no punches with her observations which I happen to value as she then tells me how to fix said observations right after, has enough weaponry to level a small building, and is currently liveing in my house after genuinly offering to go live near the creek to my mother is just a detail. A very dangerous, very complicated detail, but still just a detail.

  Dawson shifts in his sleep, pressing his head more firmly against my hand, and I continue petting him while I wait for Grace to come home.

  ---Grace---

  "So what do you say? Want to be a snack?"

  The question hangs in the air between us while my mind automatically catalogs responses. In another life, with different obligations, such directness might be refreshing. Predators recognize predators, after all, and there's something appealingly honest about someone who simply asks before attempting consumption. No pretense, no elaborate hunting rituals, just straightforward communication about intentions.

  But I have debts to consider. Obligations that require my continued existence. As such, I can not just put my tacticle blade through this Gulp's left eye socket and end the threat he poses.

  "I do not wish to pursue mating opportunities with you, Gulp," I state clearly, watching his translucent face process this information. Partnership exists for reproduction, and reproduction ensures the next generation for my clan. Something I can not participate in, though I shall not tell this Gulp that. Regardless, Gulp does not represent suitable genetic material or alliance potential for mateing opertunities. "As I do not wish to pursue mating opportunities with Jason, I do not wish to pursue them with you." I finish.

  Behind the counter, Sarah, five foot six, limited upper body strength, acceptible legs, makes a strangled choking sound that might have been suppressed laughter or genuine distress. The sound carries an edge of hysteria that suggests my phrasing has created some form of social confusion I don't entirely understand. These humans and their indirect communication patterns continue to confound me, although perhaps Jason can explain this latest confusion when I return to his dwelling.

  Gulp's purple eyes blink slowly, like processing this information requires significant computational effort. His shoulders rise and fall in what I recognize as a shrug before he reaches into one of his many pockets, producing another chocolate chip cookie. The movement is casual, unhurried, as though my rejection of his consumption request requires no more consideration than choosing which pocket to explore next.

  He pops the new cookie into his mouth, chews methodically, then grabs the half-eaten cookie from his other hand and consumes that as well. The entire process occurs with the dreamy focus of someone whose priorities operate according to completely different parameters than survival or efficiency.

  After swallowing, he pauses, that unfocused gaze drifting between me and Sarah like he's suddenly remembered where he is.

  "Dude," he says in that wet voice like talking through some substance I cannot identify, "what were we doing again?"

  The door chime announces another arrival before anyone can answer. A woman enters with the controlled movements of someone accustomed to evaluating threats while maintaining casual appearances. Dark hair pulled back in a practical style, angular features with high cheekbones and narrow eyes, skin the color of polished wood. Her clothing suggests both professional competence and readiness for physical activity. Her presence fills the small space with the particular tension that follows those who have learned to be dangerous without advertising it.

  "Akiko," Sarah calls out with the easy familiarity of regular customers. "How's it going?"

  The woman—Akiko—nods once in acknowledgment before her dark eyes settle on me with analytical precision. Her evaluation feels thorough without being invasive, the kind of professional assessment that catalogs capabilities rather than threats.

  "I require new shoes," she states with efficient directness that I find appealing. Then her gaze shifts between me and some point behind me, brow furrowing slightly. "Are you and your daughter here to purchase shoes as well?"

  Daughter? I turn, following her line of sight, but find nothing except empty space and running equipment displays. When I face her again, confusion must be evident in my expression because she's watching me with increased interest.

  "I have no daughter," I say carefully, studying her face for signs of deception or mistake. "Explain what you mean."

  Akiko considers this for several seconds, her expression shifting through what appears to be internal calculation. Finally, she nods with the kind of measured acknowledgment that suggests she's reached some conclusion I'm not privy to.

  "I apologize for my mistake," she says formally.

  But there's something else now, threading through the air between us. A scent that makes my enhanced senses catalog information I don't fully understand. Sweet, delicate, like flowers blooming—though not any flower I recognize from my world or this one. Beneath that floral sweetness lies something metallic and sharp. Blood and iron, familiar and concerning, though whether the scent carries current threat or recent violence remains unclear.

  "Grace," Sarah's voice draws my attention back to immediate concerns. "What's this about Jason?"

  The question catches me off-guard. I consider how to explain obligations and debt without revealing information these humans couldn't possibly understand.

  "I do not wish to pursue mating opportunities with Jason," I repeat, hoping clarity will prevent further confusion. "As he has stated on multiple occasions that he is attracted to me."

  The words feel inadequate to describe the complexity of the situation. Jason could command me to do many things—his authority with the deathoath creates obligations I cannot simply disregard. But he has not exercised that authority, has not demanded physical intimacy despite his clearly stated interest. The restraint he shows when he has power over me given what anyone from my homeland with the same power and desires would do creates feelings I lack proper vocabulary to express.

  These women would not understand about death-oaths and the binding nature of life-debts. They exist in a world where obligation is choice rather than fundamental law, a world of warmth where blind men can live to adulthood instead of being culled, where small dogs serve as pets and not either food or working animals, and a man, finding a woman on his doorstep would bring her inside without hesitation.

  Movement catches my attention as Akiko reaches into her jacket, producing a small collection of cards. One of the cards, now face up draws my emmediat attention—these match the same design and quality as the game I discovered on Jason's laptop when I clicked upon the wrong hunting path. War of Great Houses, the strategy simulation that somehow contained detailed knowledge of Jason himself.

  This card shows a disc-shaped platform, approximately eighteen inches in diameter, with retractable weapon mounts and magnetic treads. The designation reads "P-7 'Sweeper' Personal Defense Platform" with technical specifications that detail autonomous patrol capabilities and gauss weapon systems. Below the image, text describes something called House Astrid's philosophy about "bigger Rumbas with bigger guns solving bigger problems."

  "You have cards from 'War of Great Houses'," I observe, studying the detailed technical illustration. The artwork quality suggests these are official game components rather than reproductions.

  Akiko's smile carries depths I don't attempt to interpret. "I've had these for... a long time."

  "May I ask about the command unit of House Astrid? Jason Stone?"

  Her dark eyes study my face with renewed intensity before she shuffles through the cards with practiced efficiency. When she finds the one I've requested, she holds it out with steady hands.

  The image shows Jason in military dress I've never seen him wear, standing with the confident bearing of someone accustomed to command. The artwork captures details about him that feel more accurate than mere artistic interpretation—the precise shade of his eyes, the way he holds his shoulders, even the particular expression he wears when making decisions about complicated situations.

  "He's a good unit," Akiko says quietly, her voice carrying unusual warmth. "He's... human. All of his house—and it is his house, he altered it enough for that claim—they're all human. But he started it. Made it better."

  Her words settle into my mind alongside my own observations of Jason's behavior. The way he brought me inside when leaving me outside meant death. The way he fed me without question, clothed me without expectation of return. How he caught me when I slipped on the stairs after the pizza even though he knew the fall wouldn't injure me, knew I might interpret his sudden touch as attack and respond accordingly.

  He chose to help me when he had no obligation to do so. Chose to trust me with his credit card when he had no guarantee I would return. Chose to show restraint when he possessed authority over me that could have been exercised without resistance or harm comeing to himself regardless of what he commanded.

  These actions speak to a character that I am unsure what to do with.

  "Sarah," I turn back to the shopkeeper as I do not wish to think about this further, "you mentioned you could provide shoes?"

  "Absolutely," she responds with professional enthusiasm. "Though it would be better if you brought Jason to the store. Fit is crucial for running shoes, and even with his size, individual foot characteristics can vary significantly."

  "Jason currently does not have appropriate footwear for this weather. As such, The cold would cause discomfort during travel here, and I will not allow that."

  Sarah nods with understanding, disappearing into the displays before returning with a pair of running shoes. They appear well-constructed but not expensive—practical choices for someone who needs function over fashion.

  "These should work for basic use," she says, setting them on the counter. "But I need to caution you—Jason shouldn't run hard in these or he'll injure himself. They're good shoes, but they're not designed for serious mileage or aggressive training."

  I nod, accepting this information while reaching into my pocket for Jason's credit card. My hand encountering empty fabric where the card should be.

  This is concerning. I distinctly remember placing the card in this pocket, and I haven't removed it since leaving his house. My clothing doesn't have holes, and the pocket isn't large enough for the card to have shifted to some unreachable location.

  "You dropped this."

  Akiko's voice is matter-of-fact as she extends the credit card toward me. Her expression suggests this is a simple observation rather than anything requiring explanation.

  I know I did not drop the card. My pocket was secure, my movements controlled, and I would have heard the sound of plastic hitting the floor in this quiet store. But pointing out these facts serves no useful purpose and might create complications I don't need.

  "Thank you," I say, taking the card from her steady hand.

  Sarah moves the payment device across the counter toward me, its small screen glowing with transaction information.

  Before I can respond, Gulp's dreamy voice drifts over from where he's wandering among the shoe displays.

  "Dude, can I eat you?" he asks Akiko with the same casual tone he'd used to request permission to consume me.

  Akiko doesn't seem surprised by the question. "You would not find me pleasant to consume," she informs him with clinical detachment.

  Gulp considers this for several seconds, those purple eyes unfocusing as he processes whatever internal logic governs his dietary preferences.

  "Oh, that's cool," he says finally. "I was gonna ask Sarah too, but she lets me hang out here, so I need to rack up good karma points first."

  And then, without apparent transition, he begins reorganizing the nearest display of running gear. His movements become surprisingly precise and systematic, humming under his breath as he works.

  *"The cookies go gulping one by one, munch munch, munch munch down into my tumm,"* he sings softly, stacking energy bars with careful attention to alignment. *"The cookies go gulping one by one, munch munch, munch munch. The little one stops to check the crumb, and they all go gulping down, in my mouth, to get out of sight..."*

  The melody continues as he works, transforming chaos into ordered efficiency with the focused attention of someone whose scattered exterior conceals practical competence.

  "He's actually good at that," Sarah observes with genuine surprise. "Organizes things better than I can sometimes."

  I watch Gulp continue his work while maintaining the gentle rhythm of his song. *"The chips go crunching two by two, the little one stops to check if new..."*

  "Could we do touch instead?" I ask Sarah. Jason used tap when we visited the pet store, but perhaps I should attempt this 'touch' option. After all, I will be able to determine if touch is actually problematic, and act accordingly so Jason will not detect my emotions going forward, and as such, others cannot do so either.

  "Sure thing," Sarah says, turning a small keyboard device to face me. "Just put in the PIN number for the card."

  I look at the numbered keys for several seconds, recognizing them as similar to those on Jason's computer but uncertain how they relate to this transaction process.

  "I do not have Jason's PIN number," I admit. "This is his card, not mine."

  From behind me, I hear the soft sound of electronics being manipulated. Akiko has produced a phone from her jacket and is performing some operation with it before tossing it toward me in a smooth arc.

  I catch it easily, noting that she unlocked the screen before throwing it—I observed her touching the surface in a specific pattern, presumably entering whatever security information was required. "You can call him," Akiko suggests with practical helpfulness, "and ask him for the pin. Hold it close to you're ear and we won't be able to listen to his answer if he decides to give it to you."

  I input Jason's phone number, remembering the sequence from watching him dial it previously, the phone ringing three times before connecting with a soft click.

  "I'm not here," Jason's voice says clearly. "Stop trying to scam me. Goodbye."

  There's an electronic beep, and then silence.

  I stare at the device, uncertain whether this constitutes successful communication or technical failure.

  "That was voicemail," Sarah explains, apparently reading confusion in my expression. "He wasn't there to answer, so you got his recorded message instead."

  I nod, processing this information while Akiko reclaims her phone with practiced efficiency, manipulating it briefly before returning it to her pocket.

  *"The crackers go crunching three by three, the little one stops to drink some tea..."* Gulp continues his musical organization nearby.

  "Maybe tap would be better?" Sarah suggests with surprising patience.

  "Yes," I agree, remembering Jason's previous interaction with similar devices. Though I had hoped to test the touch option for myself, it appears that that will not be happening in this current environment.

  I tap the credit card against the machine's surface, remembering that Jason had performed this action by touching the card to the device rather than inserting it into the slot. The machine produces a confirming beep, and I return the card to my pocket, noting the satisfying weight of completed transaction.

  "Are you and Jason dating?" Sarah asks suddenly.

  The question creates an odd pause in the store's atmosphere. Even Gulp's humming falters momentarily, though he resumes with *"The ants go marching four by four, the little one stops to shut the door..."*

  "Define dateing." I say: "I am unfamiliar with this consept."

  "Dateing is..." Sarah starts before: "OK, what do you think it is?"

  "Sexual cuppling is for the function of reproduction in-order to create the future of the clan." I say: "and as I have stated, I do not wish to pursue sexual relations with Jason. As such, no, we are not dateing."

  Sarah blinks several times, her expression cycling through reactions she doesn't voice while her scent floats to me of confusion, the desire to embrace me, more confusion, and something that I can not identafy as well as, something sickly sweet under all of it, like rotting meat.

  "Jason must put a lot of trust in you either way," she says finally, "to give you his credit card."

  "Why do you believe this requires trust?" I ask, genuinely curious about her assessment.

  Sarah's professional demeanor shifts as she explains, her voice carrying the patient tone of someone accustomed to educating others about practical realities.

  "Credit cards are connected directly to your bank account," she begins. "When someone uses your card, they can spend your money. There are some protections if the card is stolen, but generally, giving someone your card means trusting them not to spend more than you can afford, not to buy things you wouldn't approve of, and to return the card to you instead of keeping it for their own use."

  She pauses, studying my face to ensure I'm following her explanation.

  "Most people only share their cards with family members or very close friends. The kind of people they trust completely. For Jason to give you his card for shopping suggests he believes you'll act in his best interests rather than your own."

  Her words settle into my understanding like pieces of a puzzle I hadn't realized I was assembling. Jason trusted me with access to his resources without guarantee of return. This gesture represents vulnerability deliberately offered, confidence in my intentions despite our limited acquaintance.

  The weight of that trust adds another layer to the debt I owe him, though I know that he will never ask for said debt's repayment.

  "I understand," I tell Sarah, reaching for the shoes and tying their laces together for easier transport. "Thank you for this information."

  *"The snacks go munching four by four, the little one stops to ask for more..."*

  As I turn toward the door, Akiko's voice follows me.

  "Mia will need you," she says with quiet certainty. "Both of you."

  I pause, considering whether to ask for clarification, but Akiko's expression suggests she's shared what she intended to share. Some information arrives when you're ready to receive it rather than when you want to possess it.

  The cold febuary air hits my skin as I exit the store, carrying the scent of snow and the distant promise of more severe weather. My mind processes the events inside—Sarah's explanation of trust and credit cards, Akiko's mysterious knowledge of people and situations, Gulp's cheerful reorganization accompanied by his consuming song.

  But most significantly, I think about what Jason's simple gesture means. He trusted me with his credit card not because obligation required it, but because he chose to believe I would honor that trust. He demonstrated faith in my character when he had no guarantee his faith was warranted.

  This creates obligations beyond those imposed by death-oaths.

  As I begin the journey back to his house, carrying shoes purchased with his money through his trust in my judgment, I find myself considering what it means to be worthy of the confidence others place in you.

  The snacks go munching, as Gulp sang, but they are consumed together toward common satisfaction.

  Perhaps that understanding matters more than I initially realized.

  I will return to jason's dwelling. I will give him the shoes that I aquired for him, and I will speak with him about why he puts so much trust in me, who has told him that I, if the vigger had not taken, would have taken him into his back yard before killing him, and then killing Dawson when the dog attacked me for harming his human.

  ---Jason---

  # Homecoming

  The doorbell rings, that familiar ding-dong echoing through the house, and immediately Dawson launches himself off my chest with zero regard for my ribs. Thirty-two pounds of suddenly motivated golden fur rockets across the hardwood floor, his collar jingling like sleigh bells as his claws scrabble for purchase. He's doing his excited-visitor dance at the door—the one where he spins in rapid circles while making those weird whining noises that could mean either "intruder alert" or "new best friend incoming," depending on his mood.

  I push myself up from the couch, feeling that familiar tightness in my chest that comes from Dawson using me as a launching pad as well as being just kind of depressed a lot of the time, not that Grace will ever know about that, she's got enough shit to deal with, being in a new world and all without haveing to deal with something I can, kind of.

  "Grace," I hear through the door, her voice carrying that particular note I can't quite place. Resignation, maybe? Or that careful control she uses when she's dealing with things she'd rather not be dealing with.

  I open the door with what I hope is a welcoming smile instead of the grimace I'm actually feeling. The cold February air hits me like a slap, carrying with it the scent of snow and exhaust and something distinctly Grace-like—that clean, outdoorsy smell that reminds me of pine forests and mountain streams.

  Dawson immediately butts his head against Grace's legs with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for long-lost relatives. His tail is wagging so hard his entire back end is wiggling, and he's making those snorting happy sounds that mean he's approximately thirty seconds away from attempting to jump into her arms. For a dog who supposedly takes forever to warm up to strangers, he's certainly appointed himself as Grace's personal welcoming committee.

  Kitten appears from whatever mysterious cat dimension she retreats to whenever the doorbell's not ringing or interesting things are happening, padding over with that particular feline swagger that suggests she's granting us all the tremendous favor of her presence. She winds around Grace's legs, purring loud enough that I can hear it over Dawson's excited panting, and gives one of those demanding little "mrow" sounds that translates roughly to "I require immediate attention and possibly tuna."

  I reach down and scoop Kitten up before she can begin the complicated process of claiming Grace's ankles as her personal territory. The little furball immediately starts purring louder, settling herself around my neck like she owns the place. Which, let's be honest, she pretty much does.

  "Probably ran off to sleep on my bed the second you left," I say, scratching under her chin and earning an even louder purr. "Only bothered getting up when you heard you're Grace coming home. Silly cat."

  Grace steps inside, bringing another wave of that clean cold air with her, and closes the door with a soft click. I hear the familiar sound of her untying something, then the thud of shoes hitting the small table by the door.

  "I purchased these as you currently have no footwear," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me pay attention. Not quite satisfaction, but close. Like she's accomplished something she set out to do. "Now you have footwear."

  But then her voice shifts, takes on a different quality that makes my stomach tighten. "Sarah appears to believe that you need to come into the store."

  There's something there, something she's not saying. The way she pauses before the word "appears," the careful neutrality in her tone when she mentions Sarah. It's the same voice she uses when she's describing something that irritated her but she's not sure if she should be irritated by it or not.

  I consider pushing, asking what exactly Sarah said or did that put that particular edge in Grace's voice. But from what I've learned about Grace over the past few days, if it was something I needed to know—something important—she would have told me already. At least, I hope she would have. I'm still figuring out her system for determining what information is worth sharing and what falls under the category of "Jason doesn't need to worry about this."

  Grace must catch something in my expression, though, because her voice softens slightly. "You are concerned," she observes, and it's not quite a question. "Why?"

  I almost ask about the tone I heard when she mentioned Sarah, but then I feel the fantem weight in my back pocket and decide I need to get the credit card conversation out of the way first, so might as well tackle the uncomfortable topics while we're already dancing around them.

  "How much did the shoes cost?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual and probably failing spectacularly.

  "About twenty dollars," Grace says, and then she pauses in that way that means she's analyzing something. "You smell concerned about something. More than just something I might have said." Her voice sharpens slightly, taking on that direct quality that means she's decided subtlety is inefficient. "Why are you concerned? I will not ask again if you request that I do not, however I wish to know regardless."

  I wouldn't ask her not to ask—that much I know about myself. The idea of Grace censoring herself because I'm uncomfortable feels wrong on several different levels. Besides, she's right. I am concerned, and it's not really about whatever happened at the store.

  "I won't ask you not to ask," I say, settling back against the door frame while Dawson continues his enthusiastic greeting ritual around Grace's legs. "I'm conflicted about the credit card, I guess? Or maybe I'm conflicted about being conflicted about the card. It's complicated."

  The words sound inadequate even as I say them, but Grace doesn't seem to need elaborate explanations for emotional complexity. She just waits, letting the silence stretch until I figure out how to put the rest of it into words.

  "Why did you give me your credit card?" she asks finally, and there's genuine curiosity in her voice rather than accusation.

  "One, you needed it," I say, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent. "Two, I didn't have any cash on hand, and I don't know how much shoes cost, and you were going to go anyway."

  "Yes," Grace confirms. "I was going to go. I am the direct cause of you're shoes becomeing the state they were in, and as such, I will ensure that they are replaced so you are not disadvantaged more than absolutely necessary."

  There's something almost formal about the way she phrases it, like she's reciting a principle rather than explaining a decision. It reminds me that Grace operates according to codes I don't fully understand yet, systems of obligation and responsibility that probably made perfect sense in whatever world she came from.

  She moves into the living room, and I hear the soft sound of her settling onto the loveseat. "Sarah explained what the card is connected to. A bank account. Your money storage device." Her voice carries a note of something I can't quite identify—bewilderment, maybe? Or something deeper than that.

  "She is..." Grace pauses, and when she continues, her voice has taken on that careful quality she uses when she's discussing things that don't translate well. "I do not know what to think that someone would gift me such. In my homeland, few would ever gift another with that. None would have gifted me unless I took it, and if I was going to, I would have killed the other person in the process."

  The casual way she mentions killing people still catches me off guard, even though I'm getting used to Grace's matter-of-fact approach to violence. It's not that she's threatening—quite the opposite. It's more like she's describing the weather, stating facts about how things work in a world where resources and trust are apparently much scarcer commodities.

  I move back into the living room and flop onto the couch with perhaps less grace than the situation calls for. Kitten immediately abandons her perch around my neck and scampers over to claim the center of my chest, settling herself with the kind of precision that suggests she's been waiting for this exact moment. Her purring kicks into high gear as I start stroking her tiny head, and Dawson jumps up to sprawl across my legs with a dramatic huff that indicates he's deeply pleased with this arrangement. Smart cat, and smart Dawson too.

  "I was concerned," I admit, looking at Grace while my hands keep busy with cat-petting duties. "Not that you'd steal it or anything like that. Just... what if you decided that you could survive better with the card? Not even with any malice, just... Grace, you're a survivor at your core. Survival tools are the most important things to you. What if you just didn't come back because you decided the card would serve you better."

  The possibility had been gnawing at me the entire time she was gone more or less, that little voice in the back of my head suggesting that maybe I'd made it too easy for her to disappear. That maybe I'd given her exactly what she needed to decide that she was just better off with a card, mobile, portible, than a man who held power over her. Which, well. I can understand, if nothing else.

  "Losing the card would have sucked," I continue, scratching behind Kitten's ears and earning an even louder purr. "But I could have canceled it. Would have been a massive pain in the ass, but I could have done it."

  I hear the soft sound of Grace moving, settling more comfortably into the loveseat. A moment later, there's the gentle click, plastic on glass, of something being placed on the coffee table between us.

  "Your credit card," Grace says simply, and I know she's returning it. "As for your concerns... they are not unreasonable."

  Her voice carries that same thoughtful quality it takes on when she's working through something complicated, weighing different aspects of a problem she's trying to solve. "Survival tools are indeed important. However, I have determined that this household, this... arrangement... provides better survival prospects than solitary existence with limited resources."

  She pauses, and I can hear her shifting slightly on the loveseat. "Also, about the store. Someone called Gulp was there..." and here her voice takes on that particular tone again, the one that means she's describing something that she found noteworthy for reasons I probably won't like.

  "Describe Gulp again?" I say, even though I'm pretty sure I already know what she's going to say. Granted, well, Gulp, tummy, but still. Grace exists, so.

  "Six feet tall, translucent skin with blue-green veins visible underneath. Purple eyes that never focus on anything specific. Hair that moves without any breeze—dark, oily strands that curl on their own. He smells of ocean brine mixed with fresh bread and something chemical. Baggy clothes, pockets bulging with food in various stages of consumption."

  She pauses, and when she continues, her voice carries that same analytical precision. "He approached me and asked if he could 'eat' me. When I declined, he seemed unconcerned and began consuming chocolate chip cookies while reorganizing the store's inventory. He sang while working—something about cookies going 'gulping down into my tummy.'"

  My stomach drops. The description matches exactly what I'd seen in the game files earlier—one of the Tummy faction's infiltrator units. The perpetually stoned, seemingly harmless entities that view the universe as a cosmic buffet but are too stoned to all hell to actually really act on it. Except now one of them is apparently real and wandering around Toronto asking people if he can eat them.

  "They match," I confirm, slumping back into the couch cushions. "I went to look at the game again while you were gone. Gulp—he's what the game calls a Munchy. Part of the Tummy faction. Bio-ships full of organisms that exist in a constant state of chemical euphoria, drifting through space viewing everything as one massive buffet."

  I run my free hand through my hair, disturbing Kitten's carefully arranged position and earning a disgruntled chirp of protest. "So let me get this straight. You go to buy shoes, and some kind of cosmic stoner infiltration unit asks if he can eat you while reorganizing the store's inventory. And Sarah wants me to come into the store. Why, exactly?"

  "She was of the opinion that she required you're presence to measure you for shoes." Grace says, that same tone re-entering her voice again.

  "Great," I mutter. "Just fantastic. A cosmic stoner who casually asks people if he can eat them while reorganizing retail displays is not what I needed to deal with today. Already trying to get around the fact that my brother's been playing a game that had me as a command unit for I assume years now.

  Grace's voice takes on that matter-of-fact tone again. "I could go stab Gulp if you wish? The problem would resolve itself in short order after that. I considered pushing my tacticle blade through his eye-socket, but did not wish to be recorded doing it. However, I can insure that no camras are present in future."

  I blink several times, then slump deeper into the couch with a sigh. "No," I say, though part of me wonders if stabbing cosmic infiltration units is actually a reasonable response to this situation. "I won't ask you to do that, Grace. Thanks though."

  "Why not?" Grace asks, and she sounds genuinely curious rather than argumentative. "In my homeland, I was routinely asked to do such. I was... I am a tool. A weapon. Such should be utilized to their full potential."

  The casual way she describes herself as a tool sends something hot and angry surging through my chest. I can feel my breathing quicken, my free hand clenching into a fist against my thigh. The idea that someone—anyone—taught Grace to think of herself as nothing more than a weapon to be utilized makes me want to find whoever programmed that belief into her head and have a very serious conversation about basic human dignity backed up by a heavy object. Like, say, an axe before embeding said implement into said person's skull.

  My mouth opens, words building up behind my teeth like pressure behind a dam. Something fundamental and furious wants to break free, to tell her exactly what I think about anyone who would reduce a person to the status of a tool, to explain that she's so much more than whatever fucked-up conditioning made her believe that's all she is.

  ---Grace---

  "I could go stab Gulp if you wish," I say, my voice taking on that matter-of-fact tone I use when discussing tactical solutions. "The problem would resolve itself in short order after that."

  The offer is practical, efficient. Gulp represents a potential threat—an infiltration unit whose casual requests for consumption suggest either poor tactical discipline or confidence in his ability to follow through on such requests. Either way, elimination would remove the variable from Jason's environment, simplifying his daily navigation of this increasingly complex situation.

  Jason blinks several times, that rapid flutter of eyelids that indicates he's processing information his mind finds difficult to categorize. His body slumps deeper into the couch cushions, the movement creating small vibrations that travel through the furniture and into my awareness. Dawson shifts slightly on Jason's legs, adjusting his position to maintain optimal contact while accommodating his human's change in posture with a soft huff.

  "No," Jason says finally, his voice carrying that particular weight that comes with decisions made against instinct. "I won't ask you to do that, Grace. Thanks though."

  The gratitude puzzles me. Thanking someone for offering to eliminate a threat is like thanking them for breathing—it's simply what competent allies do for each other. But Jason's scent carries genuine appreciation mixed with something that smells like relief, as though my offer reassured him about something he hadn't realized he was worried about.

  "Why not?" I ask, genuinely curious rather than argumentative. This is the perfect opportunity to clarify my role in this arrangement, to establish the parameters that should have been obvious from the beginning. "In my homeland, I was routinely asked to do such. I was... I am a tool. A weapon. Such should be utilized to their full potential."

  The words feel like stepping onto solid ground after weeks of navigating uncertain terrain. Finally, Jason will understand what I am—what I've always been. The pretense can end, the comfortable illusion that I'm somehow more than what my training made me. I am relieved, actually. The weight of pretending to be something precious, something worth protecting rather than using, has been growing heavier each day.

  I enjoyed Jason looking upon me as a woman, as something valuable beyond my tactical applications. But that fantasy was always temporary, always destined to end when reality reasserted itself. I was a blade before I met him, and I am a blade now. The only difference is that now he'll finally command me, use the power he has over me through the debt I owe. Even if the thought of it sends something cold and sharp through my chest, settling like ice between my ribs, I will know what to do. What to think. What to feel in this world where blind men become adults and look upon women who tell them they are psychopaths as if they are somehow precious. Where they do not use thw power they have over her.

  Kitten, as though sensing the shift in the room's emotional temperature, purrs louder and jumps off Jason's chest with feline grace. Her small paws make barely audible contact with the hardwood floor as she scampers across the space between us, then launches herself upward to land against my torso. She curls around my neck in that practiced movement that suggests she's claimed this position as her permanent territory, settling into place before starting to knead my neck with her paws, claws carefully retracted as they always are.

  The vibration of her purring creates warmth against my throat, a steady rhythm that somehow makes the ice in my chest feel less solid. I don't understand why this tiny creature's presence affects me this way—weapons shouldn't find comfort in such things—but the sensation is undeniably real.

  Jason's reaction is immediate and visceral. His breathing quickens, the sound becoming more pronounced in the quiet room. His free hand—the one not occupied with unconsciously reaching for where Kitten had been moments before—clenches into a fist against his thigh. The muscle tension is visible even through his thick sweater, his knuckles probably white beneath the fabric.

  Something hot and angry surges through his scent, sharp and metallic like heated steel. It's not directed at me, I realize with surprise, but rather at something my words have triggered in his mind. His jaw tightens, the muscles along his neck standing out in relief as he processes whatever internal reaction my statement has provoked.

  The idea that someone—anyone—taught me to think of myself as nothing more than a weapon appears to be causing Jason genuine distress. His scent spikes with protective fury, the kind of smell that usually precedes violence in my experience. But his anger isn't aimed at me; it's aimed at whoever shaped me into believing what I am.

  This reaction confuses me. In my homeland, recognizing someone's nature as a tool or weapon was simply practical assessment. You wouldn't expect a sword to pretend it was a flower, or ask a bow to function as a musical instrument. Acknowledging what something is designed for isn't cruelty—it's efficiency. I am a weapon. I have killed people. I have been used to kill people.

  Jason's mouth opens, his lips forming the beginning of words before stopping. I can see the pressure building behind his expression, like water behind a dam that's developing stress fractures. Something fundamental and furious wants to break free from him, to spill out in a torrent of whatever thoughts my casual self-description has triggered.

  His eyes—those clear blue eyes that can see me now due to my intervention in ways he couldn't before—bore into mine with an intensity that makes something flutter uncomfortably in my stomach. There's pain there, but also determination. The kind of look people get when they've decided to charge an enemy position regardless of the odds.

  Then Jason stands.

  The movement is sudden, decisive, causing Dawson to slide sideways on the couch cushions with the indignant expression only a dog whose comfortable position has been disrupted could manage. Dawson's brown eyes fix on Jason with the kind of betrayed accusation that suggests this interruption of optimal tummy-rub positioning constitutes a serious breach of the human-dog social contract.

  Jason strides across the small space between us, his movements carrying purpose and something that smells like barely controlled emotion. When he reaches the loveseat where I'm sitting, he squats down to bring himself roughly to my eye level, his knees probably protesting the position but his focus entirely on my face.

  "Grace," he says, and his voice is deeper now, more resonant. The sound carries weight and authority I haven't heard from him before—not the casual confidence he shows when discussing topics he knows well, but something more fundamental. The voice of someone who has decided something important and will not be swayed from it.

  "May I grip youre shoulders?"

  The question stops me entirely. Not 'I am going to grip your shoulders.' Not 'I command you to let me grip your shoulders.' He asked. He requested permission, and by his scent—though filled with anger as it is—I know that if I declined, he would not push. Just as he did not push when I mentioned my encounter with Sarah at the running store, accepting my boundaries even when his curiosity was obvious. Just as he has never pushed when I have made it clear I did not wish to speak of a subject even though he could have without risk to himself.

  This is not how people typically behave with weapons. Weapons don't get asked for consent regarding physical contact. They get positioned and utilized according to need.

  "You may," I say, the words emerging more quietly than I intended.

  Jason reaches out, his movements careful and deliberate, before gently gripping both my shoulders. His hands are warm through the fabric of my shirt, and I can feel that warmth soaking through the material and into my own flesh. The contact is firm but not restraining, present but not controlling. I could easily break free if I chose to, and somehow I think he positioned his hands specifically to ensure that remained true.

  "Weapons," Jason speaks, his voice soft but carrying an intensity that makes each word feel weighted with significance, "don't enjoy themselves at the TTRPG game. You did."

  He squeezes my shoulders once, a gentle pressure that somehow emphasizes his point more effectively than harder contact would have.

  "Tools don't have preferences," he continues, his blue eyes never leaving mine. "Don't save cats they find in cardboard boxes. Don't enjoy showers. You aren't a tool or a weapon, Grace."

  The words hit me like physical impacts, each one challenging something I've believed about myself for so long that questioning it feels like questioning gravity. But Jason's certainty, the conviction in his voice and the warmth of his hands on my shoulders, makes it impossible to dismiss his perspective entirely.

  "I have sk—" I start to say, beginning to list the skills that define what I am, the training that shaped me into a functional instrument of violence. But before I can continue, Jason removes one of his hands from my shoulder and places a single finger gently against my lips.

  In my homeland, such a gesture would have earned him a bitten-off finger as a matter of course. The presumption of silencing someone, of physically controlling their speech, was grounds for immediate retaliation. My body tenses automatically, muscle memory preparing to demonstrate exactly why touching a weapon without permission is tactically inadvisable.

  "If we were in my homeland," I state, my voice flat and matter-of-fact, "I would have bitten off your finger as a matter of course."

  Jason's scent spikes with a flicker of concern—not fear, but awareness that he's potentially crossed a line. Then something surprising follows: the overwhelming urge to embrace me, so strong I can smell it like ozone before a thunderstorm. And beneath that, even more unexpectedly, amusement. Not at me, but at something else entirely.

  "I know you meant that as, well, not a threat but..." Jason says, and his voice carries that same bemused quality his scent suggested. "But I just find it fucking adorable."

  Adorable. The word feels foreign applied to me, like describing a blade as cute or calling a loaded bow pointed at you charming. The cognitive dissonance is almost overwhelming.

  "I am a killer," I say, feeling compelled to clarify the reality he seems determined to ignore. "I have killed twenty-seven people in combat. Sixteen out of combat. I have let five people die. I am not, as you say, adorable."

  The numbers feel important somehow, like they should carry enough weight to shatter whatever delusion has taken hold of Jason's perception. Forty-three lives ended by my actions or inaction. Forty-three pieces of evidence that I am exactly what I claim to be.

  Jason considers this information in silence, his hands still gently gripping my shoulders. I can sense him processing what I've told him, weighing it against whatever conclusion he's already reached about my nature. During this pause, Kitten makes a discontented "mrow" sound and begins clambering up my pants leg, her tiny claws finding purchase in the denim but not penetrating to my skin.

  Without conscious thought, I gently place my palm under the small cat and lift her until she can curl around my neck in her preferred position. She settles against my throat and immediately starts purring, the vibrations causing something warm to unfold in my chest. The sensation is entirely at odds with the serious nature of our conversation, but I find I cannot regret it.

  "Weapons wouldn't do that, Grace," Jason says, his voice carrying gentle certainty as he squeezes my shoulders again. "They wouldn't help a cat because they wanted to. People though? People do that. You do that."

  The simple statement carries more weight than elaborate philosophical arguments might have. Because he's right—I saved Kitten not because it served any tactical purpose, but because leaving her in that cardboard box to die felt wrong in a way I couldn't articulate. Just as I help Jason navigate his world not only because of the debt I owe, but because his wellbeing has become important to me in ways that have nothing to do with obligation.

  "I..." I begin, then gently pull back and out of his grip. Jason immediately leans back without comment, giving me space without making the movement feel like rejection. The absence of his hands on my shoulders leaves the warmth of his touch lingering on my skin like a memory.

  "Require a shower," I finish, needing time to process this conversation and the uncomfortable truths it has raised.

  Jason nods, then stands, extending his hand toward me in a gesture of assistance. His palm is open, fingers uncurled—an offer rather than a demand. I place my hand in his, feeling the calluses on his palm and the strength in his fingers as he helps pull me to my feet. The contact is brief but somehow significant, like shaking hands on an agreement neither of us has fully articulated.

  "You know where everything is this time?" he asks, and there's a smile in his voice now, lighter than the intensity we've been sharing.

  "Yes," I confirm, but I don't immediately remove my hand from his. His gesture was meant as assistance, after all, and responding appropriately seems important. Jason nods, then seems to suddenly realize he's still holding my hand. His scent spikes with concern, probably wondering if he's overstepped another boundary.

  "I..." he begins, uncertainty coloring his voice.

  "You wished to assist," I say, gripping his hand once with my own before removing it. The brief squeeze feels like punctuation, a way of acknowledging his intention without making the contact more complicated than it needs to be. "I will not stab you."

  Jason chuffs out a laugh, the sound carrying genuine amusement rather than nervousness. Then the urge to embrace me spikes in his scent again, so strong I can practically taste it in the air between us. I find myself thankful he doesn't act on the impulse—not because it would be unwelcome, but because I'm not certain I understand what my response would be.

  "Could you?" I ask, nodding toward Kitten, who has made herself comfortable around my neck and shows no signs of willingness to relocate for something as trivial as my personal hygiene needs.

  Jason smiles, the expression reaching his eyes in a way that makes something warm further in my chest. He reaches up, his movements careful and gentle, to lift the small cat from around my neck. Kitten voices her protest with an indignant "mew," but allows herself to be transferred to Jason's shoulders. Once there, she immediately winds herself around his neck and settles into place like she's claimed a new throne.

  Jason begins stroking the tiny creature's head with one finger, his touch feather-light against her fur. His scent flares with protective warmth, the same note I detected when he spoke to me moments ago. It occurs to me that Jason extends that protective instinct broadly—to Dawson, to Kitten, to me. Perhaps that's simply who he is rather than a response to any particular worthiness on our parts.

  "You remember how to lock the door?" he asks, his attention divided between me and the cat now purring against his neck. "I won't come in, but. Better safe and all that."

  "I do, yes," I confirm. The bathroom door lock is simple enough, though his concern for my privacy continues to puzzle me. In my homeland, privacy was a luxury afforded only to those with sufficient power to demand it.

  I turn and stride toward the bathroom, hearing Jason return to the couch behind me. Dawson's happy huff as he jumps back onto his human's legs carries clearly through the quiet house, followed by the soft sounds of reunion between dog and owner.

  As I reach the bathroom doorway, my lips quirk upward ever so slightly. The expression feels foreign on my face, unfamiliar muscles moving in ways they rarely do. But the anticipation of warm water—and perhaps the memory of Jason's hands on my shoulders, the certainty in his voice when he called me a person rather than a weapon—creates something that might almost be called contentment.

  The feeling is only due to the anticipation of warm water, of course. Nothing more than that.