For all her quick learning, Ava still had a long road ahead.
Emotional mirroring and rapport-building had come almost naturally to her — a frightening skill, really — but being believable in pain was different. Rapport was connection. This was vulnerability. It demanded precision. Control. The ability to let someone see your heart cracking without ever letting it break.
And Vera wasn't going to let her into that world unprepared.
So the next phase began.
For two days, their world shrank to the small apartment and the private tension between the two girls. The curtains stayed half-drawn, coffee cups multiplied on the table, and the air filled with whispered scripts and swallowed nerves.
Vera taught her how to hold sadness in her voice without drowning in it.
How to pause in the right places, like memories clawed too close.
How to let tears gather — not fall — because most victims don't want to cry. They fight it.
How to lie with truth-shaped edges.
And how to do it all while breathing steady and watching the other person swallow guilt whole.
Ava learned fast. Too fast.
"Again," Vera said, leaning against the counter, arms folded.
Ava lowered her gaze, shoulders falling in a slow, practiced collapse — like someone rehearing a tragedy she'd never escaped.
"When my mom got sick…" she began, voice trembling faintly.
"No breath break after mom," Vera corrected softly. "Real pain keeps pace. It only catches later."
Ava nodded, inhaled, reset. Tried again.
Vera watched every quiver, every flicker of muscle beneath her skin.
And somewhere between repetition and silence — real pain flickered behind Ava's eyes. A shadow she didn't speak of. One she wasn't practicing.
Later, when Tess shuffled past them sleepily and asked what they were doing, Ava just smiled and said, "Practicing speeches. For when I'm rich and inspirational."
Tess giggled and shuffled away.
Ava's smile faded slowly after she disappeared.
Practice continued until Ava could drop into heartbreak like stepping through a doorway. Until she could fill her voice with raw ache and pull back before it shattered.
And when she finally got tears to pool — perfectly timed, perfectly restrained — Vera exhaled.
"Alright," she murmured. "You're ready to try it outside."
A test. In the real world.
---
The thrift store;
They chose a charity thrift store — quiet, gentle, full of soft-eyed strangers. People who believed hurt could be healed with kindness and secondhand sweaters.
Ava stood by the door first, letting her breathing settle. Setting her pulse.
She didn't rush. Emotion needed shape first — edges to soften, memories to borrow.
Vera nodded once. "Go."
Ava slipped inside, scanning faces. Not hunting — choosing.
She passed a mother sorting baby clothes, a teen stacking donated books, an older man paying for used shoes.
Then she saw her: a woman sorting little jackets with hands that looked like they'd soothed fevers and tied shoes and wiped tears.
Kindness lived in her posture.
Perfect.
Ava wandered closer, picked up a tiny cardigan, and let her face soften — then tremble.
The woman noticed. "Sweetheart, are you alright?"
Ava blinked hard, like she was trying not to fall apart. "I'm sorry. It just… reminded me."
"Your little one?"
"No." A breath broke in her throat. "My sister. Before I lost her."
Phase one.
"My mom… she was sick. I tried to take care of her but—" Her voice dissolved, not loud, but raw enough to make the woman's hand freeze mid-motion. "She died. And then everything… just fell apart."
Phase two.
"They put us in foster care. But they separated us." Ava swallowed, fighting imaginary tears. "She cried so much that night. I did too. We were all we had left."
Phase three.
"I had a scholarship. I worked so hard…" A tiny cough of disbelief, like the world had been cruel enough to surprise her. "But the foster dad… he kept trying to— come into my room at night."
The woman gasped softly. Another shopper glanced over, shaken.
"I couldn't sleep. My grades crashed. I lost everything. And when I told the social workers, they didn't believe me." Ava's eyes glimmered — restrained, controlled. "So I ran. I had to. I just… had to."
The first woman's hand flew to her mouth. Horror. Sympathy. Rage on Ava's behalf.
A breath trembled out of Ava like she'd been holding that confession for years instead of thirty seconds.
"I lost everything. And I'm trying to… rebuild. But it's hard when you don't have a family. Or money. Or… safety."
Silence wrapped around them, heavy and real.
A teenage volunteer stocking shoes froze mid-movement. A retiree digging in her purse stopped and stared. There was no disbelief — only that aching, automatic human instinct to reach out.
Because Ava hadn't just delivered sadness.
She had delivered believability.
The woman placed her hand gently on Ava's arm. "Sweetheart. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve any of that."
Ava let her lips tremble once — one perfect, devastating shake — then forced a fragile smile.
"I'll be okay. I just… wanted to get one thing that makes me feel normal again."
The woman didn't hesitate. She reached into her purse.
"Take this. Please. Get what you need."
She pressed folded bills into Ava's hand before Ava could protest.
Another lady approached — older, gray curls, shaking her head in sorrow. "No girl deserves that life. Here, get yourself groceries too."
More bills.
Because of a quiet, burning urge to protect a wounded thing.
Ava whispered thank you, voice barely audible, eyes down as though shame weighed her spine.
Vera followed minutes later, expression unreadable.
"That was…" she breathed. "Scary good."
Ava wiped a nearly dried tear off her cheek — not one that had fallen, but one placed perfectly to look like it might've.
"It worked."
"It worked," Vera echoed, quieter.
They walked in silence.
---
Vera had always known Ava was smart.
Quick. Sharp. Hungry.
But this? The precision of it? The emotional control? The ease?
Ava had sounded like she lived that pain.
Like she'd carried those losses in her bones.
And for a fleeting second — a blink — Vera had wondered if there were pieces of Ava she didn't truly know. If some of her softness, her loyalty, her trust might one day turn out to be practiced too.
The thought felt like a cold hand closing around her ribs.
She shook it off — fiercely.
This was Ava.
Her Ava.
Still… something quiet lodged in her throat.
She cares. This is real. It has to be.
And yet, beneath the reassurance, a single seed of doubt remained — small, sharp, dangerous.
Because today, Ava didn't just look like someone heartbroken.
She looked like someone who could break hearts without ever touching her own.