Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44703 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44703 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 224(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
I’m saving my final files when I hear it.
Laughter. Not real laughter. The sort that’s sharp at the edges and aimed at someone.
I don’t look up. I’ve learned, over the years, that sometimes the best thing you can do is not look. Not engage. Not make yourself a target by acknowledging that you’ve heard something you weren’t supposed to.
But the voice carries.
“...honestly can’t believe they hired a human for the design team. I mean, it’s not like there’s a shortage of qualified preters who could actually—”
The voice drops. More laughter. Lower this time, conspiratorial.
I keep my eyes on my screen. I click save. I click it again, even though the file is already saved, because the repetitive motion gives my fingers something to do that isn’t curling into fists.
It’s not the first time.
That’s the part that nobody warns you about when you’re a human working in a preter-run company. The outright hostility is rare, Lykaios Holdings has strict policies about discrimination, and most people follow them. But the undercurrent is always there. The glances that linger a beat too long. The conversations that pause when you walk into a room. The particular way certain colleagues say “human” like it’s a diagnosis.
I’m used to it. Or at least, I’m used to the version of it that stays in the background, that whispers instead of speaks, that I can choose not to hear if I try hard enough.
But lately, it’s been getting louder, and I’m honestly not sure why that is. I haven’t done anything differently. I come to work, I do my job, I eat lunch with Trish on the roof, I go home. I don’t cause problems. I don’t draw attention to myself.
But something has shifted in the last couple of weeks, and I can’t figure out what.
The laughter fades as whoever was talking moves down the hall and away from the design wing. I wait until I can’t hear anything except the hum of the building’s ventilation system, and then I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
I shut down my computer, pack my bag, and take the elevator to the lobby. The shuttle is waiting in its usual spot, and I find my usual seat near the back, and I pull out my phone to text Trish that I’m heading home.
She responds immediately: He just asked me to spend Saturday with him. AN ENTIRE SATURDAY. What do I even wear for an entire Saturday with a Caro???
I type back: Layers? In case he gets bitey?
Trish: ZIA.
Me: I’m kidding. Wear something comfortable. If he’s planning a whole day, he wants you relaxed, not dressed up.
Trish: But what if it’s somewhere fancy??
Me: Then he already knows what you look like in work clothes and hasn’t been scared off yet. You’re fine.
Trish: I hate that you’re good at this.
I smile at my phone. I can picture her on the other end, sitting at her desk in the IT security wing, face the color of a sunset, typing furiously while her heart does somersaults.
It must be nice, I think before I can stop myself. To be at the beginning of something. To still be in that part where everything is new and possible and you haven’t learned yet that some people say “I love you” and mean “for now.”
I put my phone away and look out the window.
The mountains are turning purple in the fading light, and the shuttle winds its way down the road in that smooth, silent way that makes you feel like you’re floating rather than driving. I rest my forehead against the glass and watch the world blur past.
Billy used to text me goodnight, too.
At normal hours. At human hours. Because we were keeping everything a secret, and he could only text when his pack wasn’t watching, which meant late at night, after everyone else had gone to sleep. I used to wait for those messages. I used to lie in bed with my phone on my chest, watching the ceiling, counting the minutes until that little buzz against my sternum told me he was thinking of me.
Two years of that.
Two years of being someone’s secret, and I was so grateful for the crumbs that I convinced myself it was a feast.
The shuttle slows for my stop. I grab my bag, thank the driver out of habit, and step into the cold.
My apartment is four blocks away. It’s small and it’s mine, and when I close the door behind me, nobody is waiting there, and nobody is texting me goodnight, and my bookshelf is still arranged by color, and the silence is fine.
It’s fine.
SUNDAY EVENING. JONI calls at seven on the dot, the way she always does.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom.”
We talk for thirty-eight minutes. She tells me about the neighbor’s dog that keeps digging under the fence and how she’s started leaving treats on the other side because, quote, “If he’s going to commit crimes, the least I can do is make sure he’s fed while he does it.” I tell her about the packaging project and how I’m experimenting with a new biodegradable polymer that might solve the moisture problem we’ve been having with the safety device casings.