It didn't take long for them to get over what I was.
A mage.
An "abnormal."
A threat, perhaps.
They saw my ears, my red eyes, the sharpness of my teeth. They saw the signs. And yet, all they did was stare — like I was an exotic pet too cute to be harmed, only good for passing admiration and polite conversation.
"She's beautiful," they said.
"Exotic," they whispered.
"Dangerous," some added — but always with a smirk, not fear. Never fear.
Because beauty can make many people stupid.
And when you're beautiful and quiet, they think you're harmless.
They forget what you are, or what you could be.
I first met Verrick, the man who burned the world, on a Tuesday.
an officer of the World Union — one of the man who outlawed all forms of magic, authorized the purges, and built camps.
He walked into safe haven with two guards and a hunger I could sense before he even spoke.
"You're that batgirl... aren't ya?," he said.
Not "hello." Not "what's on the menu."
Just those few words... five , but who's counting anyway. it curled off his tongue like an insult and a compliment all at once.
He was looking for something.
I held his gaze. Let him see the red glint in my eyes.
"My name is Sora a pleasure to meet you , sir."
He stared a moment longer, then laughed — low, sharp, amused.
"You're wasted here," he said. "Come work for me, the world union could use some like... you.!."
"I'm not interested in politics," I replied.
"It's not politics."
He leaned closer. "It's coffee."
" We don't do delivery"
" But you will for me. won't you " he said grimly
the following days he comes in , orders something new and strikes up the same conversation again and again.
By the end of the week, I was delivering drinks to the top floor of the Capitol Tower, pouring espresso for the same men who sentenced thousands of people like me to exile, labor, death.
They loved it.
Not the coffee — though I'm sure they'd say otherwise.
THEY LOVED ME!.
The way I poured, the way I moved. They laughed and snickered when I passed, softly picking at my hair. using faulty excuses like "There was something in your hair ". They asked questions they wouldn't dare ask anyone else.
"Do your ears twitch when you're angry?"
"Is it true you can hear hearts beating?"
"Do your fangs grow when you're... excited?"
I smiled through it all.
They called me "the tame one." The good mage. The pet. An exception.
The conference room was tall and sterile, ringed in white marble and glass. A perfect view of the city stretched behind Verrick's seat. I stood at the edge of the table, steam rising from silver carafes.
"Lemon zest, no sugar," I said, setting a cup before Devran Alis.
He nodded without looking at me, already reviewing the morning's agenda.
To his right sat General Vorn, who once called for a mage census and sterilization act — he winked at me when I filled his cup. Across from him was Finance Minister Hale, who oversaw "camp efficiency protocols." He liked it when I called him sir.
"Put her on retainer," Verrick said between sips. "I want her here for all closed meetings. She doesn't talk. She just listens."
The others chuckled, like it was a joke.
But I was listening... all to well. Every second. Every breath. Every name, every city, every coded phrase.
Phase Nine. Clearance Purge. Crimson Corridor. Asset Freezing.
It all went in the notebook.
And not once did I ask questions. Because they liked me better when I didn't.
I never wore the mask anymore.
There was no point pretending.
Everyone knew I was a mage. The fangs. The ears. The eyes. I didn't hide it. I couldn't. But I didn't have to.
They didn't care.
Because I was beautiful. Because I made good coffee. Because I didn't act like one of them — not wild, not loud, not desperate.
They thought I'd been broken, and remade.
They thought I was… safe.
At night, I returned to my shop. To the little apartment above, then the cellar below it. I take off the dress shirt and apron, comb the steam from my hair, and sit in silence, thinking. My boots rest beside the blades I hadn't used in years. My gloves — the ones lined with faded runes — stayed folded in a locked box beneath the floorboards.
Not yet.
Not just yet.