I sat in front of the mirror and asked Zombie to cut and dye my hair first, then tuck it under the wig to match our documents. Half her room was crammed with wigs and bottles of dye; she lit up and got to work.
The crisp snip of the scissors—and the soft fall of hair—were the only sounds I wanted to hear.
I locked my big, dark eyes on our reflection. I'd worn blue lenses with my blue hair for so long. Lately I'd been looking at my real eyes in the mirror. It felt like staring at a stranger.
"Zombie…"
She paused, then said, a little wounded, "Call me Emily."
I watched her, careful and close with the scissors. My voice came out rough, edged with irritation.
"Why? Last I heard your nickname was Zombie. It spread so far I forgot your real name… and now I see the rumours were true—you really did become one of us."
Her hand slowed. Her jaw tightened. She kept her eyes on my hair, not even blinking.
Still staring in the mirror, I said through my teeth,
"Why did you join the Organisation?they told me you only wanted to learn to hack… not turn into one of their top covert agents."
She went quiet for a beat. Ashur sat in the corner chair; by now I'd learned he never left me alone. If I was in the living room, he was there. If I came to this room, he followed—like he didn't want me alone with Zombie. It wasn't at all what I expected; he noticed everything.
"I thought you knew…" Emily murmured, thinking aloud. "I thought you'd be happy if I worked like you—if I got strong."
I gave a small, mocking smile. Our eyes met in the mirror. A clump of black hair slid off the blades and landed on my hand. I curled my fingers around it and said,
"Sleeping with men is still better than working for the Organisation."
I could feel Ashur's stare from the corner—the kind of weight you sense even when it's out of frame.
Zombie—combed through my hair, meeting my gaze in the mirror. Her voice wavered with hurt and anger.
"You don't get it… My mum sold her body to pay my dad's debts. In the end we were sold… and she let me grow up in that filth."
She glared at my hair with a hatred that made her pretty eyes burn.
"I still scrub my skin raw in the shower… because it feels like their hands are still on me."
A sharp pain knifed through my chest. I stared at a point on the floor. She picked up the bowl of dye; the sharp chemical scent climbed into my nose.
As she loaded the brush with bleach, she said,
"I thought I had to be strong like you… The first time I saw you, we were almost the same age. But I was a corpse on the floor, begging that bastard not to touch me, staring at my mother's body… And you—
you walked in with that short blue hair. That's when I fell for fantasy colours. Your eyeliner made your eyes look dangerously beautiful… You raised your gun and shot him without hesitation. And I… I wished I could be you."
Thank God the chemicals owned the air; it gave my eyes an excuse to sting. Now I understood the eyeliner, the contacts, the bubblegum-pink hair. I'd become her accidental template—a girl she wanted to mirror.
Me. The girl who hated being herself.
She layered the bleach through my hair. Eyes wet, she kept working and said, voice tight,
"About a year ago, I saw Steven on my first mission… I didn't think it would be the last time I saw him… I'm really… really sorry."
I blinked until the tear buried itself in my lashes. I swallowed the lump and fixed my cold stare on my reflection.
"You wanted to be like me? Being me comes with a brutal price. You pay every last coin."
In silence, she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and kept going.
Once my hair lifted, she rinsed it and dyed it a deep, inky blue. When I towel-dried, blue drops slid down my thigh. We blow-dried it on warm and I finally saw the exact shade: black woven with blue—
a combo I never tired of, one I'd missed for a long time.
Now it skimmed the base of my neck. My fringe fell just right. I'd still have to wear a wig on the flight, but at least the colour felt like mine again.
Before Zombie left the room, I said softly,
"Emily."
Her eyes lit; she spun towards me, hopeful. I gave a faint smile. "Thank you."
She nodded, thrilled, and slipped out with the towel. I drew a long breath and combed my fingers through my hair.
Chair legs scraped. Ashur stood. He was coming towards me— in the mirror, I could only see his feet at first.
He stopped behind my chair. I waited, watching the glass for his gaze.
His hand settled on the back of the chair; slowly, he leaned in.
He stared into the mirror. His face hovered level with mine. My breath locked; nerves fizzed under my skin. I tried not to look away.
The vanity lights washed us pale, almost ghost-white, our eyes shining like museum gems.
His gaze was cold, mocking. Still bent close, he said,
"I know what you're planning… so here's your w…warning."
The corner of his mouth cut upward.
"Watch the thoughts that run t…through that little head of yours."
I clenched my hands under the table and met those dark, well-shaped eyes with a smile of my own.
He dipped closer, whispering in my ear,
"You don't want me to take y…your head off, do you?"
His breath was hot; my skin prickled. I kept my eyes on his in the mirror and rasped,
"I'm worried you'll slice your own hand."
He bared his teeth in a smile, still right there, and my heart jolted hard.
He eased back… and I stayed, staring at him and myself framed together— a palette of black and blue.
The sea at night.
That contrast was terrifyingly beautiful.