I’d been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling of my small Earthly apartment, my mind running in circles that led nowhere. Malik’s death lingered in me like a bruise that refused to fade. It shouldn’t have cut so deep. We hadn’t known each other long, and most of that short time was spent fighting or running. But maybe that’s exactly why it hurt. We had bled together, survived together. That kind of bond forms faster, harder, than friendship ever could. I didn’t even like him for most of it and when I finally started to, he was gone.

  Dam had filled me in on what he’d seen. He’d tracked them all the way to Bobbie’s house. Fit the description perfectly. He hadn’t gone in after them, though. Said it didn’t feel right. So he turned back and joined us instead. That meant Rhythm was somewhere inside Ideworld or maybe not. Who the hell knew anymore?

  Not that it mattered much right now. I wasn’t strong enough to face him, not yet. The last time we fought, he took everything I threw at him and barely flinched. Sure, I’d gotten faster, more mobile since then, but it wasn’t enough. Still, I had a plan forming, something to crack his defenses before I struck. Malik’s memories gave me a hint, a thread to pull.

  But that was for later.

  Today, I had another challenge waiting. Different, quieter, but no less daunting. Movie night with friends. It sounded almost absurd now, like some cruel joke from a simpler life. When I first got home and collapsed into bed, I told myself I wouldn’t go. That I couldn’t. But life had to keep moving, even when it didn’t feel like mine anymore.

  And maybe… maybe it was better to face it head-on. To see Joan again, to try to pry something useful out of them. Anything that could help me plan Jason’s rescue.

  I needed something to help me see them properly, and painting an eye on my forehead would definitely raise questions at movie night. Nails, though—nails were harmless, decorative, expected. A tiny artwork on a fingertip was normal. And my fingers were precise enough that using them to spy wouldn’t be an issue at all.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I moved toward my desk where I kept the remnants of my old cosmetics kit. I remembered Peter once catching me mid-manicure, dumbfounded by how intricate the process could get. The truth was, like anything else, you could do it fast and sloppy and get something passable, but if you wanted something extraordinary, you needed tools, time, patience, and a lot of artistry.

  I started by building my little sanctuary of order. I laid everything out in a neat line: stainless-steel cuticle pusher, fine-grit file, glass buffer, precision liner brushes, dotting tools, an acetone-safe palette, and the bottles of gel polish and art gel I’d chosen. I switched on the daylight lamp overhead, because for painting something as delicate as realistic eyes, lighting wasn’t optional. The ritual itself already steadied me, drawing my thoughts away from the blood and chaos of earlier. I needed this anchor.

  Prep came first. I soaked off the previous gel, lifted away the softened layer, and gently pushed back my cuticles with practiced pressure. I cleaned the plate of each nail, shaped them with the file, buffed the shine away, then wiped everything down with an alcohol pad so the base coat would adhere without protest.

  Then came the foundation. A thin layer of rubber base, self-leveling into a perfect gloss before curing under the lamp. After that, two coats of a neutral, milky shade. Subtle enough to vanish, steady enough to serve as an unobtrusive canvas. Each layer cured in full; realism demanded smoothness, and smoothness tolerated no shortcuts.

  With the background ready, I began the eyes. I dotted a small pool of white art gel onto my palette and, with a fine round brush, painted an almond-shaped outline on the first nail before filling it in. I repeated the motion across all ten, a quiet rhythm. Once cured, I shaded a faint grey halo around each sclera as real eyes were never truly white, always carrying some softness of shadow.

  For the irises, I chose my own hazel. With a medium dotting tool, I pressed a circular base into the center of each eye. Before curing, I feathered in deeper brown, touches of olive, and a darker green ring at the outer edge. Then, using a micro liner brush, I drew thin radial strokes to mimic the delicate fibers of a living iris. When the depth finally felt right, I cured the layer.

  Pupils were next. Using pure black art gel and my smallest dotting tool, I placed each one with deliberate care, making sure all ten gazes aligned. No accidental cross-eyed spies on my hands. A pinpoint of bright white went into each pupil as a highlight, giving the illusion of wetness, of something living behind the paint. I added a faint, almost imperceptible vertical line as well, a subtle fracture, an echo of the eyes I was trying to mimic. An echo…

  To push the realism further and my sudden thoughts away again, I mixed a soft brown with a touch of pink and, with a feathered brush, painted a thin shadow along the lower curve of every eye, hinting at an eyelid. A delicate black lash line followed, finer than a strand of hair, just enough to bring the shape into focus. I cured each detail as I worked, layer by careful layer.

  Once all ten eyes were finished, I encapsulated them in a thin layer of builder gel to protect the artwork. After filing the structure into a smooth, even shape and brushing away the dust, I sealed everything with a high-gloss top coat. The final cure locked it all beneath a glassy surface.

  When I flexed my fingers beneath the lamp, the tiny eyes stared back with startling realism. Depth, reflection, and a faint suggestion of life in every nail. Even with years of practice and professional tools, the effect still caught me off guard, in the best possible way.

  I let my Authority pour into them. Shadowlight slipped from my core and crawled across my skin, winding up my arms until it reached each fingertip. The colors shifted as it moved. White, brown, green, even something that looked like pure black, like it was trying to match the palette of the painted eyes themselves. And when the eyes flared to life, my vision fractured open into a strange, kaleidoscopic sweep of perspectives. Every flex of a hand, every twitch of a finger reshaped the view, but it didn’t overwhelm me. With an extra brain and Anansi helping to filter everything, it felt almost natural, like I had been born with eyes growing from my fingertips.

  Honestly, I should add even more brains to my personal collection later. Even now, thought ran smoother, cleaner, like two threads of reasoning woven in parallel through my mind.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  I sat down by my laptop and ordered ten new bedsheets to replace the ones I’d sacrificed, both here and in the Domain. Then I added several rolls of industrial canvas, the kind used for printing massive murals or ship sails. I’d cut them apart and turn them into portable traps once I had time. After that came the paints: acrylics, sprays, oils, watercolors, wall paints, and my usual stash of theatrical-grade makeup. Anything that could become a tool or a weapon. I didn’t want to risk running out of something crucial halfway through… whatever came next.

  Once the shopping was done, I headed for the shower and started getting ready.

  **********

  Deep brown pantyhose, white knee-socks, a black miniskirt, a crisp white shirt, and a fitted brown leather jacket formed the bones of my outfit for the night. I wrapped it all up with a brown-and-white striped scarf, a matching warm hat, a long coat, and heeled boots. Layered, warm and tidy, just enough to look composed, even if I wasn’t.

  While I dressed, my second mind nudged me with another idea: magic stored in jewelry. It should’ve been obvious. After all, I’d been wearing the Lifeline Talisman necklace since practically day one, but it somehow hadn’t clicked until now. Rings would be perfect: tiny anchors to summon items I kept in the Domain, not full conceptual paintings like I required before.

  But rings were more complicated than necklaces; I’d have to learn how to artifice them properly. Only one way to find out if I could.

  I stood before the hallway mirror, adjusting my scarf, thinking through all of it. The magic, the tools, the traps, and, unfortunately, Malik too, when Sophie stepped out of her room.

  She’d gone with reds, greys, and silver, and as always, she made it work without even trying.

  “Is Nick coming for you?” I asked, the morning replaying in my head whether I wanted it to or not. As far as I knew, he hadn’t told her anything. Neither had I. No one wanted to sour the night.

  “Yes,” she said, though she frowned faintly. “Although he sounded sad today. Do you think he’s having second thoughts about all of this, or… about me?”

  “No.” The answer left too fast, too certain, and my second mind caught the slip a heartbeat later. “There’s this boy he took care of—” I began, trying to cushion it.

  “I know, Malik,” she said, tightening her scarf, her eyes softening with recognition.

  “Yes.” I paused. My first instinct was to spin a gentle half-truth, something to ease her into the night. But my second mind cut in sharply: bad idea. She’d find out anyway. Better to let the truth land early, not crash later.

  “He died today.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Nick and I tried to save him,” I said softly. “But we failed. That’s why he’s sad.”

  “You failed meaning he was killed?” she asked, sitting down. I joined her and pulled off my scarf and hat, letting the warmth settle around us.

  “Unfortunately. His brother did it… which makes it even worse. I got him out of the fight, but too late. Nick drove us there on the bike, and neither of us fought at all today. Malik died practically on the spot.”

  She stayed quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. I let the silence sit between us like something fragile. When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, calm.

  “Do you think I should tell him he can stay home? And are you even okay going?”

  “If he’s going, he probably needs it, same as me. I’ve had so much shit thrown at me lately that anything remotely fun feels like a blessing. I want to forget for just one evening, before everything comes crashing back tomorrow. You know what I mean?”

  “I never had anyone close to me die, so I can only guess,” she admitted softly. “But I’ll try to make you both comfortable.”

  I pulled her into a hug, and we rose together.

  “Thanks, Soph.”

  “No. Thank you for telling me, and not hiding it under that whole ‘for your own good’ nonsense. I hate that. So cliché.”

  “I… was considering it for a second.”

  “I knew you were, that’s exactly why I said it. Don’t you dare do it in the future.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said with a mock salute, and she snorted. “I left you the account details earlier on your desk. You got them, right?”

  “Yes. Memorized and destroyed the evidence. Anything specific you want me to start with? Or do I get free rein?” She answered while checking her phone.

  I gave it two deeper thoughts on two separate chains of mind, then nodded.

  “Actually, yes. I want you to buy me a shipping container.”

  “A what?” she blinked. “Also, Nick is downstairs.”

  I put my scarf and hat back on.

  “A shipping container. Big metal box, cargo ship style. Make it so it’s waiting for me in a port. I want to paint the interior before they load it on a ship and drop it in the ocean.”

  “Alexa…” She stared, momentarily speechless. “Do I want to know what you need that for?”

  I laughed. “For your own good, you definitely don’t.”

  “I’m… inclined to believe that, this time, it might actually be true,” she said slowly. “I’ll make it happen.”

  We stepped out of the apartment and Sophie locked the door behind us. My mind flicked briefly to Peter. He’d been here just hours earlier while I lay motionless in bed, but left early to pick up Zoe and Peaches.

  Once the lock clicked, we headed down the stairs, and of course we ran into Mr. Frankie. An older, overweight man. I remembered meeting his shadow the first time we left my Domain for Ideworld—me, Nick, Peter, and… Malik. Frankie’s shadow had been warped, twisted into something sexual, with a dick so grotesquely swollen it barely fit inside his trousers.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with that too-wide smile. Unfortunately, he was coming up, so we had to pass him. “Always such a pleasure seeing you both. A real treat for the eyes.”

  “Thank you. It amazes me you’ve still got eyesight sharp enough for that,” Sophie replied, sweet as sugar. I laughed internally—twice—on two separate brains. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t catch the jab at his age.

  I didn’t bother speaking. Just nodded and shifted to pass him on the opposite side Sophie chose. We were nearly past him, and through the eyes on my nails I saw him—of course—checking us out, gaze locked on our asses the moment our backs turned. Utter creep.

  So I dropped my bag and bent to pick it up, deliberately giving him exactly the view he was hoping for. When he practically choked on his own breath, I snapped upright again, bag in hand.

  He swallowed hard, face flushing red.

  “It’s not very nice to stare like that, Mr. Frankie. Makes us feel unsafe,” I said coolly.

  “I… I wasn’t staring. Just… wanted to say goodbye. Forgot. Goodbye, girls!” he stammered, then scrambled into his apartment.

  We made it almost to the ground floor before Sophie finally asked, “You did that on purpose, right?”

  “Yeah. I don’t like him. He gives off bad vibes.”

  “I think he’s just a lonely man, Alexa.”

  “Oh, for sure,” I said, pushing open the door.

  Nick was waiting for us downstairs.

  “Doesn’t give him the right to ogle us like that, though,” I added, glancing back at Sophie.

  She only exhaled sharply and let the topic drop.

  “Hello, girls,” Nick said. The smile he managed was strained, painfully different from his usual easy brightness.

  “You should’ve told me what happened. We can still stay here, just the two of us,” Sophie said and threw me right under the bus. Well, two actually, first for telling her about it, and second, because she wanted to leave me. I snorted under my breath at the audacity.

  “Alexa told you? That’s surprising,” Nick said.

  “Funny much, Leben?” I shot back.

  “Not really. Not today.” He winced, the truth bleeding through. “It’s not easy for me to pretend nothing happened.” Ouch. “But I think it would be better in a bigger crowd, Soph.”

  “You sure?” she pressed, both with her words and by leaning into him.

  “Yes.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, grounding himself as much as her. “And… I’m sorry, Alexa. For what I just said. Everyone copes in their own way. I know it hurt you too.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said with a small nod. “Now let’s get to Elena’s. We have impressions to make.”