Morning

Images of dim burgundy light pulsed through Apricot Signa’s dreams, like lantern glow bleeding through silk, warm and steady with her heartbeat. For a moment she drifted inside it, safe. She thought of paper lanterns strung across Castor’s summer streets, where she’d once walked with friends beneath ribbons of firework smoke. The color reminded her of the old cathedral glass too, glowing in rainlight, when her mother used to hurry her past and whisper not to stare.

Buzz… buzz…

The sound tugged her from that half-remembered haze. Her eyelids parted reluctantly, vision swimming in a soft red wash. The glow blinked in gentle rhythm, calm against the walls, almost soothing—until her gaze locked on the cheap digital clock by her bed.

8:23 AM.

The numbers stabbed her gut. “Eight twenty-three!” Her voice cracked as she shot upright. She smacked the snooze button hard enough to rattle the plastic, the alarm’s whine strangled mid-pulse.

Her mind lagged, still sticky with dream-memory, then the truth slammed cold through her chest. Late. Horribly, unforgivably late.

She flung her blanket aside and lurched toward the closet, pulse hammering in her throat. The room tilted as she yanked the sliding door open. Her uniform waited, hung like a sentinel from a bronze curtain rod, green and white with yellow trim, pressed smooth the night before. Apricot’s fingers clawed it down, shaking.

She hopped, stumbled, wrestled with the skirt and sailor top. The fabric clung cool against her skin as buttons clicked shut in frantic sequence, muscle memory doing the work her panicked brain couldn’t.

The mirror caught her mid-motion. Chestnut hair tangled into a storm, pillow lines carved across her cheek, eyes puffed and raw with sleep. She winced. God, she looked wrecked.

Her makeup kit sat like a dare on the dresser. Normally, she wouldn’t set foot outside without eyeliner, at least a sweep of gloss to fake composure. Her hand drifted toward the pencil, muttering, “Maybe just eyeliner, it only takes a second…”

Her reflection glared back: desperate, foolish. No time. None. Vanity would only nail the coffin tighter.

She shoved the thought aside. She was already deep in it, and class wouldn’t wait.

Apricot slung her book bag over one shoulder and barreled out of her room. The hallway blurred by—the stairwell yawning just steps away, her parents’ door sealed, Jasper’s at the far end. She clattered down, hand skating the rail, then cut through the front hall toward the kitchen.

The house was already alive. Television voices droned from the living room, their glow bleeding across the floor. The air was thick with breakfast grease and burnt toast. Apricot nearly ran into Jasper at the table, his eyes welded to the screen.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Jasper snickered without looking away. The smug little imp had that look on his face, the one that always made her grind her teeth.

She yanked the fridge open, hinges groaning. Cold light bled across stacked plastic plates, Dad’s forsaken dinners, sealed and forgotten. Each one marked another night claimed by the company. He drove himself past breaking just to prove worth to men blind to his Castor blood. Okabe valued his mind, sure, but they wrung it dry, left him hollow-eyed at the table if he made it home at all.

Her stomach clenched, hunger knotted tight with worry. She tipped the milk carton back, swallowing straight from the spout, daring Jasper’s eyes to linger. The carton hit the shelf with a dull clap. She seized an egg, a stick of butter, just enough for an omelet if she moved fast, before thought slowed her hands.

Apricot shut the fridge with her hip, carton of eggs pressed against her ribs. “You know,” she muttered, voice edged with the weight of routine, “you could be a good boy for once and help your big sister, Jazz.”

Jasper snorted, not even glancing her way. “You could be responsible for once and drag yourself up. Your alarm’s been screaming all week.” His laugh was the same one that used to echo in their childhood bunk room, when he’d sneak a flashlight under the blankets and pretend not to hear her scolding. Only now it cut sharper. His eyes never wavered from the glow of the TV. Then he gasped. “Whoa—look at that. Blood everywhere.”

Her step halted, air catching in her throat. Onscreen, a street lay butchered: limbs sprawled, torsos split, red flooding the pavement like a mural painted in panic. The scene dragged her back—rain on cracked cobblestones, her first glimpse of a body bag outside the Castor clinic, the way her father’s hand had clamped hers tighter so she wouldn’t ask questions. “Jasper Signa!” she snapped, anger blooming from fear. “You know you’re not supposed to watch this trash.”

“It’s the news,” he growled, parroting the same defense he’d used last year when she’d caught him streaming horror vids after midnight. “And Mom’s not here, so stop acting like her.”

Apricot bit her tongue, the retort burning, until their father’s voice cut in, heavy as steel. “What is this?” His hand dropped firm on Jasper’s back.

Satisfaction flickered through her chest, quick and guilty. How many times had she been the one caught—ink stains on her fingers from sneaking Dad’s old engineering manuals, Mom’s belt snapping against the table while Jasper smirked safe on the sidelines? Finally, he’d get his turn.

Jasper scrambled, pointing at the gore as though evidence could shield him. “It’s the news… some robber downtown. They even had to call the SDP!” He stabbed a finger toward the screen. The camera panned, catching the twisted arm of a mech in frame. His voice swelled with pride, the same tone he’d used when he’d shown her his first soldered circuit board. “That’s a Sachiban Model 4! See?”

Apricot’s stomach knotted. Special Defense Police. Mechs on the street. Casualties climbing. She thought of the textbooks spread on her desk, the lectures about “neutral reporting,” and how she’d scribbled in the margins anyway: Who decides what truth gets shown? Who buries it? Her pulse thudded. This wasn’t just news. This was the kind of story she’d chased in dreams, the kind that left a stain.

“Jasper. Off. Now.” Harlan’s jaw locked, remote in hand. The screen went black. “Your mother would lose her mind if she caught you watching that filth.”

“But Dad—” Jasper faltered, shrinking under the same glare that had silenced Apricot a hundred times at the dinner table. Shoulders sagging, he slouched from the kitchen, sneaking one last longing glance at the blank glass.

“And you?” Harlan turned on her, eyebrow arched. “Think you’ve got time for breakfast when you’re already late for school?”

Apricot froze, whisk dangling. The half-cooked egg hissed bitter in the pan, and suddenly she was seven again, standing on a stool too tall for her, trying to make pancakes the morning Mom didn’t come home. Smoke had filled the kitchen before Dad yanked the pan away, his silence heavier than scolding. The memory coiled in her gut. He was right. He was always right.

She killed the burner and scraped the runny mess into the sink.

“Didn’t think so,” Harlan muttered, voice softening as his hand ruffled Jasper’s absent hair.

Apricot snatched a piece of toast, bag slung over her shoulder, kissed his cheek. “Sorry—gotta run.”

“Be safe. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

But trouble had her scent memorized. It always found her, no matter how fast she ran.

---

Morning slapped her awake the moment she stepped outside. The streets already surged with movement, a restless tide of workers and students spilling between glass towers. Apricot plunged into it, her pulse racing. Late again. Three strikes already this term. If she missed another…

She didn’t have to finish the thought. Miss Akagi’s voice was already in her head, sharp as chalk on the board: A journalist meets her deadlines. Discipline is part of the craft. Apricot bit her lip and clutched her bag straps tighter, weaving through shoulders and briefcases as she broke into a jog.

She rounded onto Ginzu’s Market Street—and stopped cold.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Bright holotape cut across the road, pulsing yellow in the morning light. Beyond it, police and medics crowded together, radios snapping over the groan of an ambulance. Apricot’s stomach plunged. Jasper’s report hadn’t been an exaggeration. This was the standoff scene, now a crime scene.

A guard spotted her, lifting a hand. “Hey! This area’s closed. You’ll have to go around.” His shout carried flat over the hum of engines.

She stretched on her toes, breath short, and caught sight past him. White sheets sagged over broken outlines. Medics zipped black bags shut with grim precision. A wide stain marred the concrete where something had been dragged.

Her gut twisted, revulsion and fascination battling inside her. Miss Akagi’s mantra whispered again, unwanted but insistent: Bear witness. See clearly, even when it cuts. Apricot shuddered. So it was true. People had died here.

Apricot’s voice barely carried over the siren’s shriek. “Can’t you let me through? I’m late for class.” The words vanished in the wail.

The cop slashed the air with a sharp wave, face rigid. “Didn’t you hear me? Turn around!” His thumb stabbed toward the detour.

Her body folded before her mind caught up—chin dipping, shoulders drawn in a quick bow. The gesture wasn’t hers once. She remembered being twelve, awkward in Okabe, her classmates scolding her with singsong voices: “No bow? How rude!” She’d flushed red, practicing in the mirror at night until it became automatic. Six years later, it slipped out even here, in front of a stranger who didn’t care. The apology caught in her throat, swallowed by heat crawling up her cheeks. Of course. Today of all days.

She spun on her heel, sneakers slapping wet pavement, frustration coiling hard in her chest. Two blocks. Three. The long way stretched ahead like punishment. The press of bodies thickened—office workers grumbling about delays, mothers hustling children away from whatever horror lay behind the barricade, thrill-seekers craning for gossip.

Move. Just move.

She shoved through every gap, her body running on the same urgency that once carried her through crowded Okabe markets. She saw her father again, gripping her wrist, urging her to keep pace while stalls overflowed with lacquered toys and sizzling street food. Back then, she had apologized with bows each time they bumped a stranger. Now she clipped an old man’s arm, ducked beneath another’s elbow without looking back. Manners had no place here. Each second bled out too fast. Miss the train and the morning was already ash.

The station clock tower cut above the human tide. Relief slammed into her chest as she spotted the silver tram waiting on the platform, doors still open, its engine humming like a beast about to break its leash.

That’s the 9:30… it’s leaving.

She sprinted, lungs burning, muscles tearing at her will. A businessman lurched into her path, briefcase swinging wide. She swerved too late, nearly colliding. “Sorry!” she gasped, the word tearing loose—but no bow this time. She couldn’t afford it. The station clock glared at her as she barreled forward—

9:29.

The warning chime split the air as Apricot’s boots slapped the platform. “No, no, no—wait!” Her shout rang against concrete and steel. The doors shuddered as they slid toward each other, sealing with a hiss.

Something jammed them—an arm. A hand thrust through the gap and held the way open, muscles straining. Another hand reached out, urgent, insistent.

She didn’t pause to look. Didn’t care who it belonged to. She lunged, fingers clawing for purchase. For a sick instant she grasped nothing, certain she’d smash her face into the side of the car—then rough fingers closed around hers, locking tight.

The pull was brutal, hauling her clean off her feet. The platform dropped away beneath her in a rush of vertigo, stomach plummeting—then the train swallowed her whole, doors slamming shut behind.

Momentum drove her forward. She collided against a hard chest, breath jolted out of her. They almost tumbled, but a hand clamped her arm, steadying. Heat flushed her face as she stumbled toward the nearest pole, clinging to the cold steel while the car lurched into motion.

Only when her footing returned did she hear it: a low chuckle, close enough to feel.

“Hey there,” the stranger said, amusement curling through his words. “You almost missed your train.”

“I… yeah.” The words tore out between ragged breaths. “Thanks to you I didn’t.” Heat burned in her cheeks. She must look a mess—sweat clinging, hair askew, probably red as a stoplight. She brushed a damp strand behind her ear and finally dared to lift her gaze.

Her rescuer looked only a few years older. Early twenties, maybe. Tan skin, black hair jutting up in careless spikes. Earbuds dangled against his chest, and cheap cologne clung to him like static. Not bad-looking, rough, scruffy, but the grin he wore curled too sharp, wolfish enough to put her spine on edge. Apricot’s heel inched back before she realized she’d moved.

---

The car jolted, swallowing speed. Commuters swayed as one body, pressed tight into the rattling shell. Apricot found herself wedged between a woman hauling grocery bags and the stranger, who leaned in casual, one hand hooking the rail above her head. That grin still lingered, eyes fixed.

Awkward. The thought pulsed, hot and clear. She dropped her gaze to the scuffed floor, trying to slow the frantic wingbeat of her heart.

“You got caught in the detour, huh?” His voice rose over the rattle of steel. Easy tone, but his eyes flickered across her—too quick, too thorough. A bruise shadowed his cheek. Ink ghosted the edge of his collar.

He’s sizing me up. The alarm bell clanged in the back of her skull. Apricot edged closer to the woman with the bags, letting her bulk serve as a wall.

“Yeah,” she said, cautious. “Total chaos over there this morning.” The words hung brittle. A beat later, she forced herself to ask, “Did you… come from that way too?”

“Nah. Heard people griping on the platform earlier,” he said, shoulders rolling in a lazy shrug. “They shut the whole Ginzu line after last night’s mess. So everyone’s flooding this route instead.” He leaned closer as if sharing a secret, a sly curl tugging at his mouth. “Lucky me. Wouldn’t have had the chance to play hero otherwise.”

Apricot’s lips twitched before she caught herself. Against her better judgment, she let a small grin slip. “Well… I’m grateful. Really.” She shifted her backpack, edging an extra inch of space between them. The rush of adrenaline bled off, leaving her raw to the discomfort of sweat plastering her blouse to her skin. Her nose wrinkled. Great. I probably reek. Perfect timing.

His gaze dipped—quick, sharp—to the school crest stitched on her jacket, then rose to meet her eyes again. “So what’s the rush this morning? Big exam?” His tone lounged casual, but something watchful lurked beneath it, like a hook waiting for the bite.

Apricot cleared her throat, pushing her voice steady. “Just class. Journalism class.” The words carried weight. She felt it in her chest as she said them. The program hadn’t been handed to her—it was clawed into existence, every step harder because she wasn’t one of them. Not just a major. A cause. Her chin lifted, a subtle defiance she couldn’t quite suppress. “I’m a journalism student,” she added, tasting the pride.

That widened his grin into a wolfish stretch of teeth. “Journalism, huh? Good on you. Somebody’s gotta keep the bastards honest.” His laugh came low, rolling, not entirely kind. “So—photojournalism? You haul a camera around with you?”

Apricot blinked, thrown off by the question. “A camera? Uh, not usually,” she said, slower than she meant to. Who even opened with that? The thought slipped across her face, and he caught it, already rummaging in his hoodie pocket.

“I only ask ’cause I got this sweet camera I’m trying to unload,” he said, tugging out a digital model. Slim, polished, only a few scratches on the casing. “Top of the line last year. I could give you a good price. You know, in case you journalists gotta snap some pics.”

Her stomach tightened. The thing glinted under the car’s lights, too clean to have traded hands the honest way. Hot merchandise—she’d seen that look before. Back when her dad took her to the flea market, some guy hawking watches out of a velvet case. He’d muttered to her, never buy something that wants to shine too hard—it means it’s hiding something worse. She shoved the memory down and raised a smile, polite as glass.

“That’s nice of you, but I’m not really looking to buy one.” A lie, easy enough. She’d been saving scraps from tutoring gigs just to afford a decent camera, had even lingered at pawnshop windows more times than she’d admit. But not like this. Not from a stranger on a train, not with that too-casual pitch.

He shrugged it off like water. “No worries. Offer’s open if you change your mind. I ride this train most mornings.” He slipped the camera back into his pocket, smooth and practiced. Then his hand extended, late enough to feel like an afterthought. “Name’s Cortez.”

Apricot hesitated before taking it. His grip was rough, calloused, the skin across his knuckles cut into faint scars. It reminded her of a cousin who’d worked at the docks until his hands were more rope than flesh. Cortez had the same permanence, the same weight. She kept the shake brief.

“Apricot,” she said, forcing a faint smile, one she hoped looked natural.

“Apricot. Pretty name.” Cortez dragged out the syllables, savoring them. His teeth flashed, wolfish, eyes lit with that predatory gleam again.

He leaned in, voice dropping just enough to slip under her skin. “Well, Apricot… if you ever need anything—and I do mean anything. Or even… someone. I’m around.”

A slow tap to his temple. A wink. The kind that wasn’t playful, not really.

Her stomach knotted. Heat crawled across her skin like she’d brushed something unclean. Was it a come-on? Or a warning dressed as one? She couldn’t read it, and the not-knowing clawed at her more than either possibility. Her fingers dug into the strap of her bag, ready to swing the weight between them if he reached.

The train shrieked into the station, steel screaming, air blasting from the brakes in a hiss that rattled her teeth. Lights flickered. The intercom spat out the transfer notice, half-swallowed by static.

Doors split open. The crowd poured in—shoulders, bags, voices colliding in a rush that shoved her closer against him for a beat. Her pulse spiked. She twisted, searching for space, and found only the top of his head moving away. Cortez cut through the press of bodies like he belonged there, already angling for the exit.

He turned back once, grinning through the crush. A wave, lazy and too familiar. “See you around, okay?” His voice thinned out, stretched against the roar of boarding passengers, then gone.

The platform swallowed him. A flash of his jacket. A blur. Then nothing but strangers, all moving, none him.

Apricot’s chest caved, breath spilling out ragged. She hadn’t realized she’d locked it down. Her whisper rode the noise, meant only for herself: “What a weirdo.” Too light a word, too small. He had kept her from missing the train, true. But those eyes—there was something in them, something that stayed, like afterburn burned into her vision.

She shuddered. Shook it off hard. Focus. Class. If she pushed, she could still make the tail end. The doors sealed behind her, the city dragging her forward, but a chill clung like smoke.

---

Apricot burst from the subway stairwell and into the sprawl of Blue Ash University’s campus. The quadrangle stretched nearly empty, stone and glass looming with the hush of a place already sealed into its routines. Her shoes screeched on tile as she tore down the covered walkway, sweat slicking her blouse from the commute. Humidity clung to her like wet cloth, souring the air with the stink of burnt coffee and old textbooks.

A wall-mounted LCD crackled overhead, the government crest pulsing against static. In the corner, the digits glared: 10:04 A.M.

Her stomach dropped. Thirty-four minutes lost, too many. She remembered the last time she’d been late, the professor’s look of irritation, classmates’ snickers muffled behind palms. Worse still, her father’s voice rising from memory: If you can’t keep time, what chance do you have of keeping respect? She bit down on it. Not now.

She rounded the last corner and nearly collided with the heavy door to Lecture Room 1403B. The window’s shade hung low, the paper edges curled with age, as though it had been waiting to shut her out. Bending to the thin gap at the bottom, she caught only darkness inside, the glow of a projector breathing against the walls.

Apricot gripped the handle. It refused her.

“No, no, no…” She rattled it harder, as though sheer desperation might undo the lock. University rules were iron: no disruptions. No exceptions. Her throat tightened with the same hopeless pressure she’d felt at eight, pounding on the locked clinic door after hours while her mother bled in the passenger seat. Doors shut too easily in this city. Always too late.

Her forehead sagged against the cool wood, breath shuddering. On the other side, the professor’s voice murmured in muffled rhythm—calm, steady, oblivious. She pressed her palm flat against the barrier as though touch could bridge the divide, as though persistence might matter. But the voice rolled on without her, the world rolling on without her.

She backed away, slow, unsteady, as if the floor tilted beneath her. The adrenaline that had carried her this far drained out in a rush, leaving her limbs heavy, useless. Late. Again. The thought slammed like a hammer, each strike splintering her confidence. She’d missed the lecture. Maybe the quiz too.

Her chest tightened. A breath leaked out rough, almost a sob, but she smothered it into a sigh. The sting in her eyes begged release, but she forced the tears down, swallowing hard until they burned at the back of her throat. She couldn’t let herself break over something so small. Except it wasn’t small. It was proof. Proof she couldn’t keep up, that she didn’t belong in a program built for people sharper, steadier, relentless. She wanted the chase, the rush of breaking news, but here she was, struggling to even arrive on time.

Her jaw set, a quick snap inside her head. Enough. No use replaying the failure frame by frame. She’d find a classmate, get the notes, patch the hole and move on.

She turned from the lecture hall, its glass doors reflecting her pale outline like a ghost shut out. Her feet carried her down the steps, past the campus gates, into the spill of city streets. Neon bled across the pavement, washed her in sickly pinks and violent blues. Traffic roared past, indifferent. She slipped into the flow, another shadow swallowed by the current of a city that never waited.