The money hits my account at midnight on Monday.
I'm awake when it happens. Haven't been sleeping much lately. Every time I close my eyes I see them—the blurred figures from the meeting. Feel their attention. Feel the contract settling into my bones like cold settling into a corpse.
My phone buzzes. Banking app notification.
Direct Deposit: $10,000.00 From: Property Board LLC New Balance: $19,547.23
I stare at the number. nineteen thousand dollars. More money than I've ever had at once. More money than Mom made in six months when she was alive. More money than seems real.
For the first time in three years—since Mom died—I'm not terrified of the next bill.
I sit up. Open my laptop. Start paying things. Rent first. Log into the landlord portal. Pay six months ahead. $3,240. The system asks if I'm sure. Yes. Confirm. Paid. Landlord Rodriguez will get the notification in the morning. Will probably call to make sure it's not a mistake. It's not. It's blood money. But it's real.
Electricity. Gas. Internet. All the utilities that get shut off when you're poor. Pay three months ahead on each. Small amounts but they add up. Always add up. Always due. Always threatening. Not anymore. Paid. Safe. Handled.
Credit card. The one I maxed out buying Mom's medicine when she was dying. When we still thought medicine would help. When we still believed she'd get better. $1,847.52. Pay it. All of it. Balance: $0.00. First time since she died. Account closed. Done.
By 2 AM I've spent four thousand dollars and I feel rich. Feel secure. Feel like breathing doesn't cost effort anymore.
I make a list. Things Mika needs. Things I've been saying "next month" about for years. Things we couldn't afford when afford meant choosing between food and heat.
Laptop. His current one is six years old. Keyboard missing three keys. Screen cracked. He does his homework on it anyway. Types around the broken keys. Squints at the cracked screen. Never complains. Never asks. Just makes do.
Not anymore. I order a new one. Good one. Fast processor. Big screen. The kind college students use. The kind that'll last him through university. $1,200. Add to cart. Purchase. Shipping: 2 days.
Phone. His screen is shattered. Has been for eight months. Since he dropped it on the subway. We couldn't afford to fix it. Couldn't afford to replace it. He just uses it anyway. Cuts his fingers on the broken glass sometimes. Leaves little blood smears on the screen.
New phone. Latest model. Good camera. Lots of storage. $800. Purchase. Overnight shipping.
Clothes. He's been wearing the same six shirts for two years. Same two pairs of jeans. They're too small now. He's grown. Sixteen and still growing. I can see his wrists sticking out from his sleeves. Ankles showing above his socks. He needs new everything.
I go to the store Tuesday morning. Real store, not thrift shop. Buy him jeans that fit. Shirts that aren't threadbare. Jacket that's warm instead of just adequate. Shoes without holes. Underwear. Socks. Everything. Fill three shopping bags. Spend $600 and don't feel guilty. Don't calculate cost per wear. Don't worry about next month. Just buy him things that fit. Things that are his. Things that are new.
Walk past the Beastkin Community Center on my way home. The place that gave us food when we had none. That let Mom use their computer to job hunt. That helped with her medical bills. That tried.
I go inside. Find the director. Older orc woman I've seen before. She recognizes me. "Vedia Aquila. Your mother was Carmen, yes? I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." I pull out cash. Withdrew $500 from the ATM on the corner. "I'd like to donate. To the emergency assistance fund."
She looks at the money. At me. At my neck where the black veins are visible above my collar. She knows. Somehow she knows. But she takes the money anyway. "Thank you. This will help families."
"Good." I should leave. But I ask: "Did my mother use your services a lot? Before she died?"
"Every month the last two years. Food assistance. Utility help. Medical fund." The director looks sad. "She was proud. Hated asking. But she did it for you children. She loved you very much."
Mom was using charity. Getting food assistance. Utility help. While she was working herself to death cleaning. While she was consuming violence and feeding the district and getting paid barely enough to survive.
The Property Board employed her for seventeen years and she still needed charity to feed her children.
And I'm making ten thousand a month.
The system's better now. More refined. More efficient. They've learned how to keep their cleaners working longer. Keep them grateful. Keep them dependent.
Keep them trapped.
I leave the Center. Walk home with Mika's new clothes. My phone buzzes. Text from Samira: Can we talk? I'm worried about you.
I stare at it. Haven't seen her in two weeks. Not since she called me out about the black veins. About killing myself. About what I'm doing.
I text back: Meet me at the bodega. 6 PM. I'll buy dinner.
Her response is immediate: Ok. See you then.
Mika comes home from Mrs. Kowalski's Tuesday afternoon. I told him he could come back. That it's safe now. Lied about why he had to leave. Said there was a gas leak in the building. Maintenance fixed it. All clear now.
He doesn't believe me. I can tell. But he comes home anyway because he's sixteen and wants his own space. Wants his own room. Wants to stop feeling like a burden.
He walks in and sees the bags. "What's this?"
"Stuff for you." I start unpacking. Laptop first. His eyes go wide.
"Vedia, this is—this is expensive. How did you—"
"Got promoted." The lie comes easy. Practiced it in my head. "Corporate clients now. Big buildings. Better pay."
"How much better?" He's suspicious. Smart. Always been smart.
"A lot better." I hand him the phone. New. Still in box. "You needed this. Your screen's been broken for months."
"I know but—" He stops. Looks at me. Really looks. At my face. At my neck. At the black veins that I can't hide anymore. "What happened to your arms?"
I pull my sleeves down. Instinctive. Useless. "Allergic reaction. To the new cleaning chemicals. Industrial stuff. It's fine."
"That doesn't look fine. That looks—" He steps closer. Studies my neck. The veins. The bruises that look like handprints. The marks that won't fade. "Vedia, what kind of cleaning are you doing?"
"Corporate. I told you. Office buildings. Hotels. Rich people stuff."
"And they pay you enough to buy all this?" He gestures at the bags. At the laptop and phone and clothes. "In one month? You went from broke to buying me a fifteen-hundred-dollar laptop?"
"Twelve hundred. And yes. They pay well."
"Too well." He's not stupid. Knows something's wrong. "What are you really doing? Are you—are you in trouble? Are you doing something illegal?"
Yes. But not the kind he's thinking. "No. I'm just cleaning. Same work. Better clients. Better pay. That's all."
"Then why do you look sick? Why do you have those—" He points at my neck. "—marks? Why haven't you been sleeping? Why does Mrs. Kowalski look at you like you're dying?"
Because I am dying. Because I signed a contract that acknowledges transformation as expected outcome. Because I have four to six months before I'm like Marcus. Before I'm just black veins and function and nothing human.
But I can't tell him that. Contract clause: family cannot be informed. And even if I could, what would I say? Your sister is becoming a monster so you can go to college. Your sister is erasing people so you can have new clothes. Your sister is feeding the district so you can escape it.
"I'm fine," I say. "Just working hard. Different schedule. Overnight jobs. It messes up my sleep."
He doesn't believe me. I see it in his face. In the way his ears flatten. In the way he looks at me—not with trust, but with worry. With fear. Like I'm becoming something he doesn't recognize. Like his sister is disappearing and something else is taking her place.
He's right. But I can't tell him that.
"Just take the stuff," I say. "You need it. You deserve it. Let me do this for you."
He hesitates. Then takes the laptop. The phone. Looks at them. "Thank you. Really. This is—thank you."
"You're welcome."
He carries everything to his room. Closes the door. I hear him setting up the laptop. Connecting the phone. Using the things I bought with blood money. With the price of my transformation. With the cost of his future.
I sit on my couch-bed. Look at my hands. The black veins are spreading. Reaching past my wrists toward my elbows. I have veins on veins now. Layers of them. Branching and connecting and pulsing with heartbeat that isn't mine.
Four to six months. Maybe less if I keep working at current pace. Maybe more if I slow down.
But I won't slow down. Can't slow down. Mika needs college money. Needs housing money. Needs escape money. And the work is compulsive now. Necessary. The district pulls at me. Cameron sends jobs and I take them. Every one. Can't refuse. Can't rest.
Addiction, the Board said. They never do slow down.
They were right.
The equipment arrives Wednesday. Three large boxes delivered to my door. Heavy. No return address. Just: FROM: PROPERTY BOARD FULFILLMENT
I open them on my floor. Spread everything out. Catalog what they've sent.
Salt. But not hardware store salt. This is different. Each grain catches light wrong. Sparkles. Heavy. The container says: Silver-Inlaid Sea Salt - Blessed by Three Traditions - Property Board Professional Series
Sage. Industrial bundles. Thick. Dried perfectly. Smells stronger than normal sage. Sharp. Clean. Makes my eyes water. Label: White Sage - Ritually Prepared - High Potency
Water. Gallon jugs. Crystal clear. But something moves in it when I tilt it. Shimmer. The supernatural kind. Holy Water (Multi-Denominational Blessing) - Handle with Care
Bleach. Not store brand. Dark bottle. Chemical smell that cuts through everything. Warning labels about skin contact. About fume inhalation. About disposal. Ritualized Cleansing Solution - Professional Grade - Property Board Exclusive
Gloves. New ones. Black. Thick. But these fit perfectly. Like they were made for my hands. For my specific measurements. They probably were. The Board tracks everything. Knows my exact dimensions. Knows I need larger gloves now because my hands are changing.
Supplies I've never seen. Crystals. Chalk. Incense. Metal implements that look like medical tools but aren't. Instructions printed on laminated cards. Step-by-step procedures for different types of cleansing. Different types of hauntings. Different types of victims.
This isn't hardware store gear. This is professional occult equipment. Refined over decades. Perfected through trial and error. Tested on cleaners who came before me. On Mom. On Marcus. On hundreds of others.
I'm not the first. Won't be the last. Just the current model. The latest version. Using the latest tools.
I pack everything into my kit. Replace the old supplies. The cheap salt and drugstore sage and hardware bleach. Put in the professional equipment. The tools that will make me more efficient. More effective. More useful.
More dangerous.
I need to pick up the chalk I ordered from Morrison Supply. Regular chalk, not this black stuff in the box that smells like graves. Head out at noon. Garrett's working the counter.
He sees the boxes I'm carrying. The ones with Property Board labels. His face falls. Not surprised. Just sad. Resigned.
"They recruited you." Not a question. Statement of fact. Observation of inevitability.
"Yeah." No point lying. He can see the equipment. Can see the black veins on my hands and neck. Can see what I'm becoming.
"When?"
"Monday. Signed the contract Monday."
He nods. Looks at the boxes. At me. "You were good. Past tense."
"I'm still good. Better equipment now. More efficient—"
"I mean as a person." He cuts me off. "You were a good person. Past tense. Once you sign with them, you stop being a person. Start being a tool. A resource. A weapon they use to destroy people."
"I'm erasing hauntings. Helping spirits move on—"
"You're erasing victims." His voice is hard. Angry. Sad. "You're destroying evidence. You're making crimes disappear. You're helping the people who killed them get away with it. And now you're doing it with professional equipment. With protocols. With the Board's backing. Which makes it worse. Makes it official. Makes it systemic."
I don't argue. Can't argue. He's right. Completely right. I am doing that. Am being that. Have become that.
"How long did Marcus last before he was like this?" I ask.
"He wasn't like this when he started. He was like you. Young. Desperate. Thought he could control it. Thought he could stop when he wanted. Thought he was helping." Garrett looks out the window. "Took him five years before he couldn't pass for human anymore. Another five before he stopped trying. Now? Now he's just function. Just cleaning. Nothing else left."
Ten years. Marcus took ten years to become what he is. I have four to six months. The work is more refined now. More efficient. Burns through cleaners faster. Gets more use out of them before they transform completely.
"They're getting better at it," Garrett says. "Better at extracting maximum value before burnout. Better at keeping cleaners dependent. Grateful. Trapped." He looks at my boxes. "Professional equipment. Good salary. Benefits. All designed to make you work harder. Work faster. Work yourself to death faster."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you really know?" He leans forward. "You're not going to save your brother by killing yourself. You're just going to leave him alone earlier. Orphan him faster. Make him watch his sister disappear piece by piece the same way his mother did."
I feel the words hit. Feel them land. Feel them true.
"I don't have a choice." My voice sounds small. Weak. "I signed a contract. I need the money. Mika needs the money—"
"Your mother said the same thing." Garrett stands up. "Exact same words. 'I don't have a choice.' 'My children need the money.' Seventeen years she said that. Until she didn't say anything anymore. Until she was just another dead cleaner in the Bowery who got used up and discarded."
He pulls something from under the counter. A box. Old. Dusty. Opens it. Inside: supplies. Salt and sage and bleach. Used bottles. Empty containers. One pair of gloves. Black. Stained completely. Stiff with dried blood and chemicals.
"Your mother's kit. She left it here the day before she died. Said she'd pick it up later. Never did." He pushes the box toward me. "Keep it. Remember what the work costs. Remember where you're headed."
I look at Mom's gloves. At the black stains that cover them completely. At the shape of hands that aren't mine but will be soon. At the evidence of seventeen years spent erasing people.
I take the box. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just remember." He bags my chalk. "And Vedia? When it gets bad—when you can't remember your own name anymore, when you're just function and hunger—go see Mrs. Kowalski. She knows how to make it quick. Painless. Better than waiting for the transformation to finish."
He's talking about dying. About suicide. About mercy killing when the transformation reaches the point where I'm more monster than human. When there's no Vedia left to save.
I take my chalk and Mom's box and leave. Walk home through streets that watch me. Through a city that owns me. Through a district that's transforming me into part of its infrastructure.
Four to six months. Maybe less. Maybe more. But the ending is the same. Just a question of how fast.
First official job comes Thursday afternoon. Cameron's text is professional now. Formatted. Clean. Like a work email instead of a personal message.
ASSIGNMENT #001-B Location: Midtown Hotel, Room 1847 Client: Hotel Management Situation: Guest deceased. Natural causes officially. Requires supernatural remediation before room can be rented. Payment: $3,000 Timeline: Complete by midnight tonight Equipment: Professional kit (provided) Protocol: Follow Standard Cleansing Procedure 3B
Standard Cleansing Procedure 3B. There's a laminated card in my new equipment box with that title. Step-by-step instructions. Diagrams. Checklists. Everything formalized. Systematized. Made repeatable.
This isn't art. It's industry. Manufacturing. Processing violence through a standardized procedure. I'm factory worker for death.
I go to the hotel at 8 PM. Nice hotel. Midtown. Expensive. Business travelers and tourists. The kind of place where deaths get covered up efficiently. Where problems disappear quickly. Where the Property Board's services are valued.
Front desk has an envelope for me. Access card for Room 1847. Instructions to use the service elevator. To enter through the back. To be discrete. Nobody sees me arrive. Nobody sees me work. Nobody sees me leave.
Professional. Anonymous. Systematic.
Room 1847 is standard business hotel room. King bed. Desk. Chair. Bathroom. Mini fridge. TV bolted to the wall. Everything beige and corporate and impersonal.
But the shimmer is thick. Fresh. Strong. Recent death. Hours ago, maybe. The echo is already forming. Standing by the bed. Man in his fifties. Business suit. Expensive watch. Important. Rich. Dead.
Through my Stain-Sight I see what happened. Woman in the room. Young. Scared. The shimmer shows violence. Attempted assault. Her fighting back. Him not expecting resistance. Struggle. She grabs something—the lamp, the phone, something hard—hits him. He goes down. Doesn't get up. Dead.
Heart attack officially. Natural causes. The hotel wants it cleaned before anyone investigates too closely. Before anyone asks questions. Before the woman he attacked becomes a witness instead of a criminal.
I pull out the Protocol 3B card. Read it.
Step 1: Contain entity with salt circle Step 2: Apply blessed water to affected surfaces Step 3: Cleanse with ritualized solution Step 4: Sanctify space with sage Step 5: Verify complete erasure Step 6: Document completion
Simple. Mechanical. Efficient. No room for emotion. No space for doubt. Just procedure. Just work. Just make the problem disappear.
I follow the steps. Salt circle around the echo. He watches me. Eyes empty. Not fighting. Not begging like Lyra did. Just watching. Already fading. Already accepting erasure.
The blessed water burns when it touches the shimmer. Actually burns. Smoke and heat and wrongness. The supernatural recoiling from the religious. From faith made weapon.
The ritualized bleach works faster than normal bleach. Dissolves the shimmer in seconds instead of minutes. Strips away supernatural residue like paint remover. Efficient. Effective. Terrifying how well it works.
Sage smoke fills the room. Thick. Choking. The smell is overwhelming. Industrial strength. Nothing like the gentle sage from the hardware store. This is violence. This is forced cleansing. This is the supernatural equivalent of pressure washing a crime scene.
The echo fades. Disappears. Gone. Room is clean. Empty. Silent. Ready to be rented. Ready for the next guest. Ready to make money for the hotel.
I document completion. Take photos. Time stamps. Fill out the form Cameron sent. Submit. Official. Professional. Done.
And then I feel it.
Not memories leaving. Not pieces of myself being taken. The opposite. Something added. Something foreign. Something that isn't mine.
The businessman's rage settles into me. His anger at being rejected. His fury at being fought. His violence toward the woman who said no. It flows into me like infection. Like poison. Like something alive that wants to use my body.
And underneath: the woman's terror. Her fear. Her desperate need to survive. Her horror at what she did. Her panic. All of it. Inside me. Part of me. Not my emotions. Not my memories. But there. Present. Real.
I double over. Hands on knees. Breathing hard. The rage wants out. Wants to hit something. Wants to hurt someone. Wants violence. And the fear wants to run. Wants to hide. Wants to escape. Both at once. Contradicting. Overwhelming.
I lock myself in the bathroom. Sit in the tub. Hands clenched. Fighting it. Fighting the foreign emotions. Fighting the parts of me that aren't me.
It takes an hour before it settles. Before it sinks into me deep enough that I can function. It doesn't disappear. Just... integrates. Becomes part of the background noise of my existence. Part of the static I carry now. Part of what I'm made of.
This is the new cost. Not taking my memories. Adding theirs. Adding everyone's. Making me a repository. A container. A storage facility for all the violence I clean. All the deaths I erase. All the emotions nobody wants.
The district's digestive system doesn't just erase. It consumes. Takes it into itself. Makes it part of its infrastructure. And I'm the district's stomach now. The place where violence goes to be processed. To be broken down. To be transformed into something the district can use.
I'm not just erasing people. I'm eating them.
Payment notification comes through. $3,000. Quickest money I've ever made. Three hours of work. Thousand an hour. More than Mom made in a month.
And it cost me pieces of someone else's death. Cost me their rage and fear. Cost me emotions that will sit inside me until the transformation finishes. Until there's nothing left of Vedia. Just a vessel full of other people's violence.
Four to six months. But if every job adds emotions—adds pieces of other people—how long before there's no room left for me? How long before I'm just a collection of other people's deaths wearing Vedia's face?
Cameron's text arrives: Excellent work. Client very satisfied. Three more assignments available tomorrow if you're interested.
Three more. Three more deaths to consume. Three more people's emotions to carry. Three more pieces of myself that get buried under someone else's trauma.
I accept them all. Because the money is good. Because Mika needs it. Because I can't stop. Because the work is compulsive now. Because Cameron was right—they never slow down.
I'm addicted. To the money. To being useful. To being good at something. Even if that something is eating people's deaths.
Friday morning I go back to Morrison Supply. Need more salt. The professional stuff burns through fast. More efficient means more consumption.
The store is busy. I see three other cleaners browsing. Recognize the signs. Black veins on hands and necks. Wrong eyes. The tired look of people who consume violence for living.
They recognize me too. See my equipment. My professional supplies. The Property Board labels on my boxes.
One approaches. Cat Beastkin. Female. Middle-aged. Veins cover her arms completely. She's been doing this longer than me. Years probably. Maybe a decade.
"You're the wolf Beastkin," she says. Not a question. "The one who signed with the Board."
"Yeah." I keep shopping. Don't want to talk. Don't want to be recognized. Don't want to be famous for being owned.
"How long?" she asks.
"Week. Signed last Monday."
She whistles. "Fresh. Still have most of your skin. Still have your own eyes." She looks at me. Studying. "They're grooming you. Making you efficient. Fast-tracking your transformation."
"I'm just doing jobs."
"You're doing their jobs. Their way. Their procedures." She picks up one of my salt containers. The silver-inlaid stuff. "Professional equipment. Blessed water. Ritualized bleach. You know what this stuff does?"
"Cleans better. Faster."
"Consumes better. Faster." She puts it down. "It doesn't just erase the hauntings. It feeds them to you. Makes you eat them. Integrate them. Become them. Regular supplies? They let the hauntings disperse. Fade. These?" She taps the container. "These force you to absorb. To consume. To become repository."
The cost changes. That's what the Board said. Not taking memories anymore. Adding foreign emotions instead. Making me storage. Making me vessel. Making me part of the district's digestive tract.
"They don't just want you to clean," the cat Beastkin says. "They want you to become part of the district. Feed it. You're fresh meat. New stomach. Empty vessel they can fill with violence."
"I know what I am."
"Do you?" She looks sad. "I've been doing this twelve years. Know what I am now? I'm not Keiko anymore. I'm the collection of everyone I've cleaned. Every victim. Every murderer. Every death. They're all in here." She taps her chest. "Taking up space. Using my body. My voice. My hands. Sometimes I don't know which emotions are mine anymore. Don't know who I am under all the people I've eaten."
Twelve years. Few years less than my mother lasted. But Mom didn't have professional equipment. Didn't have protocols. Didn't have efficiency. The older systems were slower. Let cleaners last longer. Process less. Consume less.
The new system burns hotter. Burns faster. Burns out cleaners in years instead of decades. Gets maximum value before the transformation finishes.
"My advice?" Keiko says. "Quit now. Break the contract. Take the penalty. Whatever it is, it's better than this. Better than eating people's deaths until there's nothing left of you."
"Can't quit. The contract is binding."
"The contract is a trap. They know you can't quit. Know you need the money. Know you'll work until you're used up. That's the point. They recruit people who are desperate. Who have families to feed. Who have no choice. Then they work you to death. Literally."
I know. I know all of this. Signed the contract knowing it. Knowing I'm trading my life for Mika's future. Knowing the ending. Knowing the cost.
"Just remember," Keiko says. "When you can't remember your own name anymore. When you're just hunger and function and foreign emotions—find someone to make it quick. Don't become like Marcus. Don't let them keep using you after there's nothing human left."
She walks away. Leaves me standing in the supply aisle. Holding professional equipment. Standing next to other cleaners who don't meet my eyes. Who know what I am. What we all are.
Tools. Resources. Vessels to be filled with violence and used until empty.
I pay for my supplies. Garrett bags them silently. Doesn't lecture this time. Just looks sad. Looks like he's already grieving. Already saying goodbye to the person I was.
Already counting down the days until I'm someone else. Something else.
The physical changes accelerate over the weekend. Like signing the contract flipped a switch. Like being official made the transformation official too.
Black veins spread past my elbows. Reach my shoulders. Branch down onto my chest. I can't wear short sleeves anymore. Can't wear anything that shows skin. Mika would see. Would ask questions. Would know I'm lying about allergic reactions.
Bruises appear constantly. On my neck. On my shoulders. On my back. Shaped like handprints. Like someone grabbing me. Like invisible hands leaving marks. They don't hurt. Don't fade. Just accumulate. Layer on top of each other until my skin is more bruise than skin.
My eyes are changing too. The brown is being replaced by silver. Mercury. Reflective. Wrong. In the right light they look metallic. Alien. Not human. Not even wolf. Something else. Something the district needs.
I wear sunglasses inside. Wear them at home. Mika stares but doesn't ask. Doesn't want to know. Doesn't want confirmation that his sister is dying. Is transforming. Is becoming something that erases people for money.
We have dinner together Friday night. I order pizza. Real pizza from the good place. Not dollar slices. Not cheap food. Good food. Because I can afford it now. Because I have money. Because I'm being paid well to destroy myself.
He eats quietly. Looks at me across the table. At my sunglasses inside. At my long sleeves in warm apartment. At my covered skin and hidden eyes and obvious lies.
"Are you okay?" he asks finally.
"Yeah. Just tired. Long week."
"You're always tired now. You're always working. You're never..." He stops. Struggles to find words. "You're never here. Not really. It's like you're somewhere else. Like you're not my sister anymore."
He's right. I'm not. Not really. I'm becoming something else. Someone else. Collection of other people's deaths wearing Vedia's face.
"I'm still me," I lie.
"Are you?" He looks at me. Really looks. "Because the sister I knew wouldn't lie to me. Wouldn't hide things. Wouldn't come home covered in marks and say it's nothing. Wouldn't look at me with eyes I don't recognize and say everything's fine."
I should tell him. Should explain. Should warn him. But the contract says I can't. Says disclosure is breach. Says telling family results in penalties. And penalties mean Mika gets hurt. Gets targeted. Gets erased.
So I lie. "Everything's fine. I promise. Just adjusting to new job. New schedule. It'll get better."
It won't get better. Will only get worse. But I need him to believe it. Need him to think I'm okay. Need him to accept the money and the gifts and the future I'm buying with my death without knowing the price.
He doesn't believe me. I see it in his face. But he nods anyway. Takes another slice of pizza. Eats in silence while his sister becomes a monster across the table.
Our relationship is cordial now. Polite. Distant. We live in the same apartment but exist in different worlds. He's the normal one. The human one. The one who gets to have a future. I'm the one paying for it. The one erasing myself so he can exist.
Fair trade. Only trade. Worth it.
Has to be worth it.
Cameron's texts change over the weekend. Become more frequent. More personal. More intimate. Like we're colleagues instead of employer and tool. Like we're friends instead of controller and controlled.
Excellent work on the hotel job. Client specifically requested you for follow-up work.
Your efficiency rating is highest in district. The Board is very pleased.
Three more assignments tomorrow if you're available. $8,000 total. You're in demand.
You're special, Vedia. Not many last this long. Not many adapt this well. You're exactly what we needed.
The praise feels good. That's the horrible part. It feels good to be valued. To be wanted. To be good at something. Even if that something is consuming people's deaths. Even if that something is becoming a monster. Even if that something is destroying everything I am.
I hate that it feels good. Hate that I crave Cameron's approval. Hate that I check my phone hoping for another message. Another job. Another chance to be useful. To be valuable. To be the best cleaner the Board has.
This is the trap. The golden handcuffs. Not just the money. Not just the benefits. The validation. The praise. The sense of purpose. The feeling of being needed. Of being important. Of mattering.
I spent twenty years being nobody. Being poor. Being desperate. Being the girl who wasn't good enough. Who couldn't save her mother. Who couldn't make enough money. Who couldn't protect her brother.
Now I'm somebody. I'm valued. I'm needed. I'm the best at what I do. And what I do is destroy people.
And I can't stop. Because stopping means going back to being nobody. Means losing the income. Means failing Mika. Means losing the only thing I'm good at.
The district knows this. The Board knows this. Cameron knows this. That's why they recruit people who are desperate. Who have families. Who need to matter. Who need to be valuable. Who will trade anything—even themselves—to finally be somebody.
The system is perfect. The trap is perfect. The golden handcuffs lock so tight I don't even feel them anymore.
Monday night I sit in my apartment alone. Mika is at school. Late class. Study group. Won't be home until ten. I'm by myself with nice food in the fridge and money in the bank and a future I'm not part of.
I look at my hands. Black veins up to my knuckles now. Bruises on every visible inch of skin. I'm 70% converted. Maybe more. The Board tracks it. Measures it. Monitors my decay with scientific precision.
Four to six months they said. It's been two weeks since I signed. Ten days since first official job. The transformation is accelerating. The consumption is accumulating. The foreign emotions are piling up inside me until I don't know which feelings are mine anymore.
This morning I wanted to hurt someone. Really hurt them. Felt rage that wasn't mine. Felt violence I didn't generate. Had to lock myself in the bathroom until it passed. Until I could separate me from them. Until I could function.
This afternoon I was terrified. Paralyzed with fear. Couldn't remember why. Just knew I was scared. Knew I needed to run. Knew I needed to hide. It took an hour to realize the fear wasn't mine. Was someone else's. Was the prostitute's terror. Was the victim's panic. Was foreign emotion I'm storing.
How long before I can't tell the difference? Before every emotion is someone else's? Before there's no Vedia left? Just vessel? Just container? Just repository for the district's violence?
My phone buzzes. New job offer. $5,000. High priority. Urgent timeline. Complete by tomorrow morning.
I should rest. Should sleep. Should take a break. But the money is good. And I'm good at this. And Cameron will praise me. And the Board will be pleased. And I'll matter. I'll be valuable. I'll be useful.
I accept the job. Pack my equipment. Head out into the night. Into the district that owns me. Into the work that's consuming me. Into the trap that feels like purpose.
The golden handcuffs are locked. I can't remove them. Don't want to remove them. Need them. Need the money. Need the validation. Need to matter.
Even if mattering means dying. Even if mattering means transforming. Even if mattering means becoming something that eats people's deaths and calls it work.
I'm Vedia Aquila. I'm twenty years old. I have three to five months left. And I can't stop working because stopping means losing everything I've gained. Everything I've bought. Everything I've become.
The trap is perfect. The prison is comfortable. The handcuffs are gold.
And I'm locked inside until the transformation finishes. Until there's nothing left to lock. Until I'm just function and hunger and foreign emotions wearing a dead girl's face.
But at least Mika will go to college. At least he'll escape. At least he'll live.
That has to be enough.
Has to be worth it.
Has to mean something.
Even if it means I end up meaning nothing.