Chapter Twenty-One: Eve (3)

  I stand on the sidewalk for exactly thirty seconds, memorizing the building's layout. Exits. Cameras. Everything I'll need to know if this goes sideways.

  The hero registration building is designed to look unthreatening, which is the most threatening thing about it. All glass and steel and those aggressively clean angles that are meant to inspire confidence but just inspire dread. The kind of architecture that says trust us while simultaneously saying you have no choice.

  I've made my decision. I'm walking through that door and playing their game until I find Fey.

  That's the plan.

  The only thing that matters is what the officer said.

  Heroes have resources. Villains have prison cells.

  Resources I'm going to use to find Fey. I'm going to find the villain that kidnapped her and clear up this misunderstanding. I saw Fey get tested, I saw the negative result. The military is wrong and I'm going to prove it. I'll clear Fey's name, bring her home, and watch monster movies until we pass out and forget this ever happened. Fey has always been a fan of monsters. Zombies, Krakens, Werewolves. While other people would cheer when a zombie was killed, Fey felt bad. She always felt like they were misunderstood. I would describe the monsters in great detail for her, and she would laugh as she compared my description to what she imagined. She’d tilt her head like she was listening to the monster breathe through the speakers. Like she could hear the difference between scary and lonely.

  So, I'm about to become a hero to find her. That's what friends do. Friends become heroes to find friends kidnapped by villains.

  I adjust my sunglasses even though the sun isn't that bright. The lenses are cheap plastic from a gas station, already scratched, but they're all I have. My hat sits low on my forehead. Not low enough to look suspicious. Just low enough to maybe, possibly, keep someone from recognizing me.

  Because everyone already knows my face.

  My face is on every news channel. Every social media feed. Every "BREAKING: NEW HERO EMERGES" headline with a photo of me mid-scream, hands blazing, the squid-monster burning in a shower of ash. They didn't ask permission. They didn't blur my face. They even zoomed in on my "Property of University Health Department" shirt, which had the logo for my university in clear view for the camera. When I got back to my apartment on campus there was a crowd of people already waiting for me, reporters, students with their phones out, someone trying to sell me a book deal.

  Now I can't go back to my apartment. Can't walk into a lecture hall. Can't sit in the library or grab coffee at the campus café without someone recognizing me.

  I can't even access my bank account. It's been flagged, frozen, "pending hero registration" according to the automated message I got this morning. My debit card was declined at the convenience store when I tried to buy a bottle of water. The cashier looked at me with pity, like I was broke instead of trapped.

  If I don't walk through that door, I don't just become a villain.

  I become a public villain.

  A very famous, very recognizable fugitive with nowhere to run and no way to hide.

  So I pull the hat lower, adjust my sunglasses one more time, and walk toward the doors like I'm choosing this.

  Like I have any choice at all.

  The automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss. I step inside.

  The lobby is all soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light. Everything is white or pale gray or that particular shade of beige that exists only in institutional spaces, the color of bureaucracy, of forms in triplicate, of your autonomy being filed away in a drawer somewhere. The only color in the room comes from the dozens of posters plastered across the walls.

  "HEROES ARE BORN HERE!"

  "BECOME A HERO TODAY"

  "SUPPORT YOUR HEROES"

  They're accompanied by cheesy images of various heroes smiling or posing heroically. Stock photo energy. The kind of images that make you wonder if the models even knew what they were being used for. I can feel the embarrassment radiating off the posters. None of the images are from heroes I recognize, not like I ever paid any attention to the hero industrial complex. I was too busy studying organic chemistry and trying to keep Fey from walking into traffic because she was distracted by some interesting sound only she could hear.

  The air smells like industrial cleaner and something floral that's trying too hard. Fake flowers in a vase on the reception desk. The scent makes my nose itch.

  A handful of other people hover near the seating area, pretending not to stare. A boy in a hoodie bounces his knee like it’s trying to escape without him. A woman older than me grips a clipboard hard enough to bend it.

  And two girls my age stand together, smiling too easily, hair too perfect, posture too practiced.

  One of them laughs softly and says, “Did you get your name yet?”

  The other squeals, “Mine is Solar. Isn’t that adorable?”

  I don’t know them.

  They look like they already forgot what it feels like to be normal.

  A woman in a crisp navy suit appears at my elbow like she materialized from the air itself. She's holding a tablet and wearing a smile that looks like it has never met doubt in its life, like doubt tried to introduce itself once at a party and she just smiled harder until it apologized and left.

  "Eve Hart," she says brightly, like she's greeting me at a birthday party instead of a government processing center. Her voice has that smooth, trained quality of someone who's practiced saying your name in a mirror. "We're so glad you made the right choice."

  I was about to ask how she knew it was me, the hat and sunglasses should have bought me at least thirty seconds of anonymity, until I caught a reflection in the polished floor and noticed dozens of tiny black domes embedded in the ceiling. Cameras. Everywhere. They must have facial recognition running, probably flagged me the second I stepped through the door. I guess it makes sense for a government organization that fights villains to have technology like that.

  I blink, letting out a held breath as I recoil from the sheer positivity radiating off the woman. "Is this where you tell me I'm lucky and chosen and should cry in gratitude?"

  Her smile doesn't change. If anything, it gets smoother, like she's buffed it to a high shine. She looks down at her tablet and drags her finger across the screen. "We prefer the term fortunate," she says, and her tone is so warm it makes my skin crawl. "This way, please."

  She turns and walks toward a check-in kiosk without checking to see if I'm following, which means she knows I will. Because where else am I going to go?

  I follow.

  My sneakers squeak slightly on the polished floor. The sound echoes in the cavernous lobby, making me feel small and exposed. Every step feels like it's being recorded, cataloged, added to some file with my name on it.

  The kiosk is sleek, white, and has a camera lens the size of my fist protruding from a glass screen. The woman, Stacy, according to her name tag, stands beside it with that same practiced smile as the screen flickers to life.

  Light pours out in a wash of cheerful yellow, and then an animated smiley face blooms across the display. It expands until it takes up half the screen, grinning with the kind of enthusiasm that makes my teeth hurt.

  A voice emerges from the speakers. Female, warm, aggressively friendly.

  "Hello, new hero! I'm H.E.R.A, your Heroic Engagement and Response Assistant! Welcome to the Hero Registration Center and your new life!"

  The smiley face bounces slightly, like it's excited to see me.

  I stare at it.

  "We're going to be great friends," H.E.R.A continues, and the sincerity in that synthesized voice is somehow worse than if it had been obviously robotic. "I'm here to guide you through your registration adventure today!”

  “I’m also monitoring your stress levels to ensure a smooth hero experience!” H.E.R.A adds. “Elevated agitation can delay your registration by up to forty-five minutes. Let’s keep it heroic, okay? Heroes who maintain a positive tone receive higher public trust scores. Smiles are contagious!” H.E.R.A’s voice has the warmth of a hostage negotiator and the soul of a toaster.

  "First," H.E.R.A says brightly, "you'll sit down and sign a few documents, just standard paperwork, nothing scary! If you're interested, we have a prize for the hero who finishes their paperwork the fastest! Last year the record was ten seconds! Can you believe it? Who needs to read all those words anyway. Boring!" As the painfully cheerful robotic voice finishes, a laugh track echoes across the lobby. “Skipping sections may reduce informed consent,” she chirps. “But don’t worry! We’ve already selected the safest options for you!”

  "Then, after you finish the hard part, we'll have a quick medical checkup to ensure you're fit and healthy as. . . well a hero! It's nothing to be scared of, I assure you we have very friendly doctors. I heard they even hand out suckers!"

  "Lastly, we'll get you fitted for your hero wardrobe, so exciting! Our on site tailors will select the perfect uniform just for you. We've already taken your measurements and weight, so there's no need to tell the staff! Isn't that nice? Easy Peasy!"

  The smiley face does a little spin, and I swear I can hear the digital equivalent of jazz hands in that movement.

  I want to unplug it. How dare it weigh me, my love of ice cream is none of its business.

  "Now," H.E.R.A says, "let's get your ID photo! This is going to be so much fun!"

  I want to find whatever server farm is hosting this nightmare and set it on fire. Which I can do now, so it’s a realistic threat.

  I sigh.

  “Wonderful!” H.E.R.A says. “ID photo begins in three… two…”

  “Wait!”

  The camera lens clicks. There's a bright flash that makes me flinch, white light burning into my retinas.

  "Perfect!" H.E.R.A chirps.

  The photo appears on the screen.

  I look like hell.

  My hair is a mess, half-falling out of my hat, greasy from a day of stress-sweating. My face is pale and drawn, dark circles visible under my cheap sunglasses. No makeup. My expression is somewhere between exhausted and furious, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes slightly red from lack of sleep and possibly from crying in my car before I came here. The hat casts a shadow across half my face. The sunglasses are crooked.

  I look exactly like what I am: a girl who's been awake for thirty-six hours, who's lost her best friend, who's being forced to become a hero to find her.

  "Oh dear," H.E.R.A says, and somehow the AI manages to sound sympathetic. "Don't worry! We'll fix that right up!"

  "Fix what?" I ask, but H.E.R.A is already moving.

  A loading bar appears on the screen, bright blue, cheerfully labeled OPTIMIZING IMAGE.

  I watch in horror as my face on the screen begins to change.

  The dark circles vanish first, smoothed away like they never existed. My skin takes on a healthy glow that I definitely don't have, the kind of glow that comes from eight hours of sleep and a skincare routine instead of panic and desperation. My hair rearranges itself into a perfect, glossy style, every strand in place, shining like I just stepped out of a salon. Color blooms on my lips, a natural pink that looks professionally applied. My eyes brighten, the redness disappearing, replaced by a sparkle that suggests I'm delighted to be here. Mascara appears. Eyeliner. A subtle contour that makes my cheekbones look sharper, more defined, more heroic.

  The hat and sunglasses vanish entirely, erased like they were never there.

  And then, worst of all, my expression changes.

  The tight, angry line of my mouth curves upward into a smile.

  A perfect smile. Magazine-cover smile. The kind of smile that says I'm so happy to be here instead of being coerced. The kind of smile that makes me look grateful instead of trapped.

  It’s my face wearing a lie like makeup.

  My stomach drops with the sick certainty that they can edit evidence now. Not just photos.

  The loading bar completes with a cheerful ding.

  "There we go!" H.E.R.A says brightly. "Much better! You'll thank me later!"

  I stare at the screen.

  At the stranger wearing my face.

  At the version of me that's been made marketable.

  "That's not. . ." I start, but my voice comes out hoarse.

  “Tip!” H.E.R.A interrupts. “Hostile phrasing may be misinterpreted as villainous intent. Try replacing ‘No’ with ‘I’m open to guidance!’”

  “That’s not what. . .” I try again.

  "Alright!" H.E.R.A interrupts cheerfully again, like I didn't say anything at all. "I'm going to hand you back over to your friendly guide Stacy now. Have a wonderful registration day! Remember, we're going to be great friends!"

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The smiley face gives one last enthusiastic bounce before the screen dims.

  I turn to Stacy, who's looking at the screen with an approving nod, like she's just watched me ace a test I didn't know I was taking.

  "Your photo turned out great," she says cheerfully.

  "That's not what I look like," I say again, and my voice comes out sharper than I intended.

  Stacy's smile doesn't waver. "ID cards are used for everything here, building access, meal plans, training facilities, everything. You really want to look your best."

  "I want to look like me," I snap.

  "H.E.R.A is in charge of all ID card processing," Stacy says, and there's something in her tone that suggests this conversation is over. "If you'd like to request a change, you can submit a complaint after you finish registration."

  Of course. A complaint. That H.E.R.A will probably process and file away in whatever digital void she uses to store inconvenient requests.

  I swallow the protest burning in my throat.

  I think about Fey.

  I'm doing this for her, I think, like a mantra. Like if I repeat it enough times it'll make this bearable.

  Stacy gestures toward a hallway leading further into the building. "Shall we continue?"

  By the time I've registered her words, she's already walking.

  My feet move before my pride can vote.

  The hallway is long and white and so clean it feels sterile in an emotional way, like they didn't just mop the floors, they exorcised the concept of dirt. The walls are white. The floors are white. The ceiling is white. The fluorescent lights overhead are so bright they make my eyes water. There are screens embedded in the walls every few feet, playing looping footage of heroes in action, catching villains, saving civilians, posing for cameras with those same perfect smiles.

  We stop at a door labeled INTAKE. There's a small sign beneath it, printed in a cheerful font that probably has a name like "Friendly Sans" or "Optimism Bold": 'PLEASE HAVE IDENTIFICATION READY'.

  The door opens before I can say something that gets me sedated.

  Inside, the intake room is even brighter than the hallway. There are six stations separated by frosted glass dividers, each one identical. Each station has a chair, a camera, a fingerprint scanner, and a little microphone like I'm about to confess to a crime on a true-crime podcast. Most of the stations are empty, except one closest to the door where a young woman in a navy suit sits as if she was waiting for me.

  Which she probably was, given they knew exactly who I was when I walked into the building.

  She waves me over, flashing me a smile as she adjusts her perch on a small stool. Her name tag says TESSA. She looks young with her hair pulled back in a neat bun and the kind of earnest expression that suggests she either genuinely believes in what she's doing or is very good at pretending.

  "Hi!" she says as I step closer, and her voice is bright but not aggressively bright like H.E.R.A's. Just... normal bright. Human bright. "I'm Tessa. I'm going to start your intake adventure."

  "Lucky me," I mutter.

  If she hears the sarcasm, she doesn't acknowledge it. Just gestures to the chair. "Have a seat."

  I sit.

  Tessa rolls her stool closer, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, something floral and light, the kind of scent that's meant to be calming.

  "Okay," she says, pulling up something on her tablet. "First we'll do biometrics, then you'll review and sign some documents. Sound good?"

  "Does it matter if it doesn't sound good?" I ask.

  She pauses, and for just a second I see something flicker across her face before it disappears, like a retail worker going off script.

  "Let's start with fingerprints," she says gently.

  She takes my hand and places it on the scanner. The surface is cool and smooth, like touching a phone screen. The machine beeps. The screen flashes green.

  "Great," Tessa says. "Now an iris scan."

  She gestures to a device that looks like a microscope mounted on an adjustable arm. I lean forward and stare into a lens that stares back like an unblinking eye.

  There's a bright flash that makes me flinch, white light burning into my retinas for the second time in ten minutes.

  "Perfect," Tessa says, and she actually sounds pleased. "Now for the paperwork."

  She hands me a tablet.

  It's thin and sleek and locked down so tight it might as well be handcuffs. The screen glows with a soft blue light that's probably designed to be calming but just makes me think of interrogation rooms. The kind of light that says we're going to be here a while.

  "We just need you to review and sign a few documents."

  I blink at the tablet as it loads, a timer appears on one side of the screen.

  "In case you want to participate in the contest we have a convenient timer for you," Tessa says.

  The tablet scrolls endlessly like it's trying to drown me in fine print, and maybe it is. The font is so small it’s basically legal whispering. Maybe that's the point. Maybe they're hoping I'll get tired and stop reading and just sign whatever they put in front of me. There's a waiver about media appearances, "Hero acknowledges that their image may be used for promotional purposes without additional compensation." A waiver about bodily autonomy during emergency situations, "Hero consents to necessary physical intervention during crisis response." A waiver about "temporary relocation for national security," which is just a fancy way of saying they can move me wherever they want whenever they want.

  After only thirty seconds a popup appeared on the screen.

  It was the same yellow smiley face. I almost jumped as H.E.R.A’s voice filled the tense silence.

  “Tip!” H.E.R.A chirps. “Reading comprehension is a sign of anxiety. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, you can select AUTO-AGREE for a smoother hero experience!”

  I hit the close button immediately and went back to reading.

  The last screen makes my blood run cold.

  HERO DESIGNATION.

  A loading bar appears, cheerful blue, labeled PROCESSING.

  I watch it fill, pixel by pixel.

  Then text appears:

  ASSIGNED HERO NAME: CINDER.

  The word doesn't compute.

  "Cinder," I say slowly, like my brain is refusing to accept it. Like if I say it out loud it'll sound less ridiculous.

  It doesn't.

  Tessa nods enthusiastically. "Market research indicates it evokes warmth, resilience, and controlled power."

  "I incinerated a squid and made a crater," I say, and I can hear the edge in my voice. "And you named me after what's left when something dies. I already have a name," I continue, and my voice is getting louder now. "It's Eve. I don't want to be called Cinder."

  Tessa's expression is patient. Too patient.

  "Hero names are assigned by H.E.R.A," she says cheerfully. "It's very thorough."

  "I don't care how thorough it is," I say. "I don't want it."

  Stacy appears in the doorway like she's been listening the whole time. Which she probably has.

  "You can file a complaint after registration," she says, stepping closer. "H.E.R.A will consider it."

  "Consider it," I repeat flatly.

  "Yes." Her smile doesn't waver. "Now, if you'll just sign here. . ."

  I breathe through my teeth.

  “I’m doing this for Fey,” I think, and I sign EVE HART in block letters. Not my real signature. Not pretty. Not cooperative.

  Then, because it makes my teeth hurt not to, I add two tiny words underneath: UNDER DURESS.

  The second my signature registers, a clumsy scrawl on the tablet screen that doesn't look anything like my real signature, the tablet dings cheerfully.

  REGISTRATION COMPLETE.

  I want to throw up.

  Stacy claps her hands once, like we're celebrating a birthday.

  "Wonderful!" she says. "Now let's get your medical checkup done, and then we'll get you your uniform Cinder!"

  She says it like it's exciting.

  "My name is Eve," I say, narrowing my eyes at her.

  She ignores me, already turning toward the door.

  I let the building swallow me, one compliant step at a time.

  The medical wing is different from the rest of the building.

  Warmer, somehow. The walls are a soft cream instead of stark white. The lighting is dimmer, less fluorescent, more like actual daylight. There are plants in the corners and the air smells like lavender instead of industrial cleaner.

  Stacy leads me to a door labeled MEDICAL ASSESSMENT and knocks twice before opening it.

  "Dr. Chen will take good care of you," she says warmly. "I'll wait right here."

  She gestures for me to go inside, and I do, because apparently I've given up on having any agency in my own life.

  The exam room is small and clean and surprisingly normal. There's an examination table with that crinkly paper on it, a blood pressure cuff hanging on the wall, a sink in the corner, a rolling stool. It looks like every doctor's office I've ever been in.

  A woman in a white coat stands by the sink, washing her hands. She's older with gray-streaked hair pulled back in a loose bun and the kind of face that looks like it smiles often. When she turns to look at me, her eyes are kind.

  "Hi," she says, and her voice is gentle. "I'm Dr. Chen. You must be Cinder."

  "My name is Eve," I sigh.

  "That's strange. They told me your name is Cinder? Did H.E.R.A change your name?"

  "Yes it changed my name! My name is Eve, I'm not going to suddenly be okay with being called a different name."

  "I'm sorry. That's not up to me. If you don't like it you can. . ."

  "Submit a complaint to H.E.R.A. . ." I finish. "I know, that's what everyone is saying."

  "Because that's how it works."

  I sigh.

  "Now, have a seat," she says, gesturing to the exam table. "This won't take long. Just a basic health screening."

  I sit on the table, and the paper crinkles under me.

  Dr. Chen pulls on a pair of gloves and picks up a blood pressure cuff.

  "How are you feeling?" she asks as she wraps the cuff around my arm.

  I almost laugh. "How am I feeling?"

  "Physically," she clarifies. "Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?"

  The cuff tightens around my arm, squeezes, releases. The machine beeps.

  She glances at the reading and doesn't comment, which means it's bad.

  Of course it's bad. My heart has been racing since I walked into this building. Probably since yesterday, when Fey disappeared and my entire life imploded.

  "Your blood pressure is elevated," Dr. Chen says gently. "That's normal given the circumstances."

  It's all so normal.

  So routine.

  Like I'm just a regular patient getting a regular checkup.

  "Any history of mental health concerns?"

  I almost laugh. "Does this count?"

  She pauses, stylus hovering over her tablet. "I'll put down no."

  I nod.

  She finishes her notes in silence, and I'm grateful for it.

  Because while she's checking boxes and filling out forms, I'm thinking about Fey.

  Fey, who might be held captive somewhere, in a basement, in a cell, in some dark place where no one can find her.

  Scared.

  Alone.

  Blind.

  "You're all set," she says after a few minutes, and her voice is professional again. "You can head back out to Stacy."

  I slide off the exam table, and the paper crinkles one last time.

  "Thank you," I manage.

  I walk out of the exam room, and Stacy is waiting exactly where she said she'd be, tablet in hand, smile back in place.

  "All done!" she says brightly. "Now let's get you your uniform!"

  She says it like it's the best part. Like I should be excited.

  I follow her down another hallway.

  The wardrobe room is massive.

  Rows and rows of suits hanging on automated racks that slide along the ceiling like something out of a sci-fi movie or a very expensive dry cleaner. The air smells like new fabric and something chemical I can't identify.

  The lighting is different here. More theatrical. There are mirrors everywhere, full-length mirrors, three-way mirrors, mirrors on the ceiling. Everywhere I look, I see myself reflected back, multiplied, trapped in glass.

  A man stands at a workstation in the center of the room. He's older, maybe fifty, with silver hair pulled back in a ponytail and the kind of sharp, assessing eyes that make me feel like I'm being measured before he even touches me. He's wearing all black, black turtleneck, black pants, black shoes, and he has the air of someone who takes himself very seriously.

  His name tag says "MARCUS - HEAD STYLIST." He looks like the final boss of a high-end department store.

  "Ah," he says when he sees me, and his voice is clipped, efficient. "Cinder. Nice to meet you."

  "My name is Eve," I say, but he doesn't react. Doesn't even acknowledge that I spoke.

  He just turns and walks to a rack where a suit hangs, already prepared.

  Already waiting for me.

  It's red.

  The fabric looks like it's been painted with flames. Not tacky cartoon flames, but stylized ones that flow across the material like they're actually moving. It's form-fitting, I can tell that from here, with a high collar and long sleeves and a design that's clearly meant to be striking.

  It's... actually kind of beautiful.

  For about three seconds, I think maybe this won't be so bad.

  Then Marcus lifts it off the rack and holds it up, and I see the rest.

  Built into the boots.

  Heels.

  Like I'm supposed to fight monsters in stilettos.

  Like I'm supposed to run and jump and save people while balancing on three inches of impractical footwear.

  And the size.

  I've never been particularly concerned about my weight. I'm average. Healthy. I eat when I'm hungry and don't when I'm not and that's always been fine. I've never counted calories or obsessed over the number on a scale or looked in the mirror and hated what I saw.

  But this suit?

  This suit is tiny.

  I stare at it.

  At the impossibly small waist. At the way the fabric is cut to hug every curve. At the way it's clearly designed for someone who doesn't exist, someone who's been photoshopped and airbrushed and optimized into an impossible standard.

  "That's not going to fit," I say, and my voice comes out flat.

  Marcus's smile is thin. "It will. Eventually."

  Heat crawls up my neck, not anger yet. Something worse. The old, familiar, stupid instinct to apologize for taking up space.

  "Eventually?" I repeat slowly.

  "Yes." He holds it up higher, like he's showing off a prize. "Some heroes fit perfectly on day one. They walk in and the suit is like a second skin." He pauses, and his eyes travel up and down my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Others... need extra help."

  The room goes very quiet.

  I feel something hot and sharp rising in my chest.

  "Extra help," I say, and my voice is dangerously calm.

  "The training program includes a nutritionist and personal trainer," Marcus continues, oblivious or uncaring. "You'll be surprised how quickly. . ."

  "Are you telling me," I interrupt, and my voice is getting louder now, "that you made a suit that doesn't fit me and expect me to change my body to fit the suit?"

  Marcus blinks, like he's genuinely confused by my reaction. "I don't make suits for heroes," he says, like he's reciting a motto. Like it's something he's said a thousand times before. "I make heroes for suits." He says it like it’s inspirational. Like he expects applause. Like my personhood is a minor obstacle the wardrobe department has already solved.

  Something in me snaps.

  "That's the most dystopian thing I've ever heard!" I shout, and I don't care anymore who's listening or what cameras are recording. "You're telling me I have to starve myself into a costume? That my body is wrong for your design? That I need to be changed like I'm a fucking product?"

  Marcus's expression hardens. "If you have concerns, you can file a complaint. . ."

  "Oh, let me guess," I snap. "H.E.R.A will consider it?"

  "Yes."

  "Of course it will. And while it’s considering it, what am I supposed to do? Squeeze into this thing? Fight in heels? Starve myself until I'm the right shape for your sexist nightmare of a uniform?"

  "The design is based on extensive research. . ."

  "The design is based on making me look like a fucking action figure!" I yell.

  As I swear, H.E.R.A speaks out of Stacy’s tablet. “Tip! Swearing is a sign of emotional dysregulation. Try ‘gosh’ instead!”

  Stacy appears at my elbow like she materialized from thin air. Her smile is strained.

  "Cinder," she says, and the name makes me flinch. "Let's take a breath. . ."

  "Don't call me that.”

  Marcus sets the suit down with deliberate care, and when he looks at me again, his expression has shifted from professional to cold.

  "We also need to dye your hair," he says flatly.

  I stare at him. "Excuse me?"

  "Fire heroes need red hair," he says, like it's obvious. "Brand recognition. The public needs to be able to identify you at a glance." He says it the way you say stop signs need to be red. Like my body is just another piece of public infrastructure, like I'm a cereal box being put together by a marketing team.

  "No," I say immediately.

  "It's part of the. . ."

  "No," I repeat, louder this time. "You're not touching my hair."

  Marcus looks at Stacy.

  Stacy looks back at him and gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  The air in the room shifts.

  Marcus's expression goes from cold to openly hostile. He turns back to his workstation, grabs a large drawstring bag from under the counter, and shoves it across the table toward me.

  "Your temporary uniform is inside," he says, and his voice has lost all pretense of professionalism. "If you want more, you can visit the wardrobe department on campus."

  The bag hits the surface with a dull thud.

  I stare at the bag.

  Then at him.

  "Campus?" I say slowly.

  Marcus looks at Stacy with an expression that clearly says are you kidding me?

  "You haven't told her yet?" he asks.

  Stacy's smile becomes strained, embarrassed. "Oh dear. We skipped right over that, didn't we?"

  "Skipped over what?" I demand.

  Stacy takes a breath, and her smile returns, bright, warm, completely artificial.

  "All newly registered heroes are required to attend mandatory hero training," she says, like she's announcing something exciting. "It's much like college, except instead of boring things like math, we teach you to fight monsters, catch villains, and how to look good doing it!"

  "I'm already going to college," I say. "I have classes tomorrow."

  Stacy's smile doesn't waver. "Not to worry! We've already notified your university that you'll be withdrawing. They're very understanding about hero duties. They even thanked us,” she adds, like that’s the worst part. “Your student account has even been transferred. Convenient, right?”

  The room tilts.

  "You. . ." I can't get the words out. "You made me drop out?" They took my future, and they’re calling it convenient.

  "We handled it for you," Stacy says brightly. "One less thing to worry about!"

  "I didn't ask you to handle it!" My voice is rising again, and I don't care. "The suit was one thing, but forcing me to drop out of college? That's. . .that's. . ."

  "That's part of the program," Stacy says, and her voice is still warm but there's steel underneath now. "Heroes need proper training. You can't fight monsters with an arts degree."

  "I was studying biochemistry!" I shout.

  Marcus sighs, long, exaggerated, the sound of someone who's dealt with this before.

  "New heroes are always difficult," he mutters.

  I want to hit him.

  I want to set something on fire.

  Stacy steps closer.

  "Cinder," she says, and I hate how calm she sounds. "You're welcome to leave the hero program at any time."

  Hope flares in my chest for half a second.

  "However," she continues, and the hope dies, "leaving the program before graduation means you'll be flagged as a villain."

  "You're joking," I whisper.

  "I'm not." Her smile is patient. Terrifying. "The system is designed to protect everyone. Heroes who refuse training are considered high-risk. It's just policy."

  I stare at her.

  At Marcus, who's already turned back to his workstation like I'm not even here anymore.

  At the bag on the counter with my temporary uniform inside.

  At the red suit with the heels and the flames and the promise that I'll fit into it eventually if I just comply.

  I reach for the bag.

  Stacy's smile widens. "I knew you'd come around."

  I want to throw the bag at her face.

  Instead, I clutch it to my chest and follow her out of the room.

  Because what choice do I have?

  Stacy presses something plastic into my hand as we walk, freshly printed, warm like it just came out of a machine.

  My new ID card.

  My fake smile.

  And the name, in bold block letters I didn’t choose: CINDER.

  I curl my fingers around it until it digs into my palm.

  Fey needs me.

  I can do this. . . for Fey.