Chapter 23: What Must Be Done

Morning pried its way over the city’s smog-choked skyline, peeling back the last scraps of night. Apricot Signa sprinted through it, backpack thudding with each step, breath turning thin in the cool, exhaust-tainted air. Damp wind tugged at her skirt. Neon signs blinked their dying pulses as early traffic whispered past, but she cut through the half-awake streets with single-minded urgency.

She skidded to a stop at the base of a gray apartment tower rising like a giant’s headstone against the dawn. The building’s windows caught the weak light like dull coins; nothing welcoming in them. Apricot bounded up the chipped, graffiti-splashed steps and grabbed at the door. Locked.

Chest heaving, she pressed a palm to her side and scanned the intercom panel: a battered white box crowded with tiny numbers. 415E. She hit the button hard.

“Bon Bon! It’s Apricot. Buzz me in!” Her voice came out tight, half-breathless.

Silence. Just static humming in the cold.

Apricot rocked on her heels, fingers twisting the strap of her backpack. Come on… please…

The speaker finally crackled alive. A sluggish voice seeped through, thick with sleep and mild irritation.

“Api? What the heck are you doing here so early?” Bonni’s voice. Groggy, confused, and not thrilled to be awake.

“Bonni!” Apricot blurted, louder than she meant to. Her pulse still hammered from the run and from the news burning a hole in her chest. “Just let me in, okay? I’ll explain upstairs.” She jabbed the call button again, impatience sharpening the motion.

Static hissed back at her. Apricot leaned closer, frowning. Come on… don’t leave me out here. A chill crept under her damp collar, raising goosebumps along her arms.

Finally, a weary sigh bled through the speaker. “…Fine,” Bonni muttered. The mag-lock buzzed, releasing with a heavy clunk. “Come on up.”

Relief washed through her. She pulled the glass door open and ducked inside.

Weak lobby lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow across the cramped space. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and leftover takeout. Threadbare brown carpet stretched toward dingy beige walls. A security camera in the corner hummed as it tracked her, its tiny red eye sweeping over her with lazy precision.

Apricot shivered under its stare and headed toward the elevator.

Inside, a single dim fluorescent panel buzzed overhead. The doors groaned shut, sealing her into the lingering mix of bleach and old cigarette smoke. As the lift lurched upward, she wrinkled her nose. Why is Bonni living in a place like this? The Bonni she knew was bold, stylish, chasing trends like they were prey. This place felt like surrender.

She caught her reflection in the dusty, warped mirror: copper hair blown wild, eyes bright and anxious, her backpack hanging crooked on one shoulder.

The elevator dinged, doors clattering open on the 41st floor. The hallway’s stale air and buzzing bulbs felt like a continuation of the lobby’s gloom. Apricot navigated the maze of identical doors until 415E came into view. She knocked.

“It’s open!”

She pushed inside and stepped into a completely different world.

Bonni’s apartment gleamed. Black-coffered ceilings studded with track lights, polished faux-stone floors, crisp eggshell walls. A few avant-garde art prints hung neatly, and a neon-pink clock glowed softly above the kitchen counter. The air smelled like coffee instead of despair.

Now this is Bonni.

“Good morning!” Apricot chirped, closing the door behind her.

Bonni stood in the kitchenette, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe, a steaming mug in hand. Her choppy hair stuck up in chaotic angles, eyes barely open, but she still managed a crooked smirk.

“You’re awfully spry,” she mumbled, taking a slow sip. “Running to school… or running a marathon? Because you look like you tried both.”

Apricot brushed a stray lock from her face. “Yeah, I’m a little hyped,” she admitted with a quick laugh. “And yes, I have class. But I came here first because I wanted to ask you something.”

Her sneakers squeaked softly as she crossed the loft.

Bonni lifted an eyebrow and set her mug down with a soft clink. “This couldn’t wait until a normal hour? You know what time it is, right?” she drawled, though the tug at her mouth made it clear she wasn’t actually annoyed.

Apricot winced. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… really needed something. And you were the first person I thought of.” Her fingers toyed with the strap of her backpack. “It’s your magazines. The paranormal ones.”

Bonni blinked, then leveled her with an exaggerated stare. “Oh lord, it is about that.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, though a grin crept across her face. “Don’t tell me you sprinted across half the city for my ancient back issues of Eerie Truths Monthly.”

Apricot clasped her hands. “Actually… yes. Yes, I did.” The words came out in a rush. “How many do you still have? I bought the newest issue yesterday and devoured it. Stayed up way too late.” Her excitement built until the words tumbled over one another. “Do you remember that article about the vampire club? The cult that drinks real blood in some underground bar?”

Bonni let out a scratchy laugh and trudged closer, giving Apricot a playful jab in the chest. “Ha! I knew you’d get hooked eventually. Miss ‘Ghosts-aren’t-real’ comes crawling for her paranormal fix. Incredible.”

Whatever sleepiness clung to her evaporated at the sight of Apricot’s enthusiasm. Bonni’s grin sharpened. “And yes, I read the vampire club article. Total freakshow. Believe it or not, I’m pretty sure I met those people once. During a movie audition, of all places.” She snorted. “This city’s huge, but the weirdos all hang out in the same three places.”

Apricot’s eyes widened. “You met them? Seriously?” For a moment all urgency dissolved, replaced by wide-eyed awe. But reality tapped her shoulder. “Right. Um, the magazines…”

Bonni waved her off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got a stack.” She pivoted and padded toward a sliding door across the loft. “Lucky for you, I’m a pathological hoarder of horror zines.”

As she pulled the door aside, Apricot glimpsed the chaos of Bonni’s bedroom. Clothes draped over chairs. Indie film posters plastered across the walls. Bonni vanished into the clutter.

Left alone, Apricot rocked on her heels and let her gaze roam. The loft, so polished at first glance, was dotted with little pieces of Bonni’s life. On the coffee table: a few loose pages and an open binder. The top sheet wasn’t homework. It was a script, Bonni’s lines highlighted and margin-notes scribbled in looping handwriting. Beneath it, an unopened utility bill lurked like a guilty secret. A thick sci-fi paperback, Robicon, lay face-down beside them, a ribbon marking the halfway point.

Apricot smiled. Bonni’s tastes were as eclectic and charmingly chaotic as ever.

She drifted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the city unfurled in layers. Towers stacked like steel cliffs. Billboards flickering their last neon gasp before surrendering to daylight. From forty-one stories up, Blue Ash City looked almost serene. Commuter drones darted between high-rises. Far below, toy-sized cars crept along wet streets. A lone megasign blinked off, one kanji at a time, as dawn took command.

No wonder Bonni stays here. Gloomy building or not, waking up to this would make anyone overlook a thousand flaws.

For just a heartbeat, she let herself forget the phantoms, the shadows, the tightening conspiracies, and simply admired the city she was somehow trying to defend.

“Found ’em!” Bonni called.

Apricot turned as Bonni reappeared, arms wrapped around a wobbling tower of magazines. She dumped them onto the coffee table with a victorious grunt. “There’s more, but this stack should keep you occupied forever.”

Issues of Eerie Truths Monthly spilled across the table in a colorful fan: GHOSTS IN THE MACHINE?, THE DEVOURER, BLOOD RITUALS OF THE INNER CIRCLE, and other lurid titles that practically screamed read me.

Apricot dropped to her knees and unzipped her backpack, sliding each magazine inside with almost ceremonial care. The bag swelled until it looked ready to burst. She zipped it shut, heaved it onto her shoulders, and nearly toppled backward under the new weight.

Bonni snorted. “Easy there, bookworm. Try not to die under a pile of tabloid nonsense.” Her smirk softened. “They’re mostly ads and urban-legend fluff anyway. But… I’m glad they make you this excited.”

Apricot tightened the straps and straightened up. “I know it’s all sensationalist stuff… but after everything I’ve…” She caught herself, shoulders tensing. “After what’s happened lately, this feels more real than half the lectures I sit through.”

Before Bonni could respond, Apricot leaned in and wrapped her in a quick hug, nearly squishing the coffee mug between them. Bonni’s fluffy robe was warm against her arms, and the faint vanilla perfume she always wore grounded Apricot more than she expected.

“Thank you, Bon Bon. Really,” she murmured. “I should go or I’ll miss my train.”

Bonni hugged her back with one arm, careful not to spill a drop. “Alright, alright. Go on.” As Apricot stepped away, Bonni kept her hands on her shoulders for a heartbeat, eyes sharpening with sisterly seriousness. “Have a good day, okay? And if you’re planning to binge all those spooky stories, I expect a full book report.”

Apricot laughed. “Deal. I’ll call you later.” She headed for the door, backpack dragging at her balance. “See ya, Bonni. Thanks again!”

“Stay safe, Api!” Bonni called, voice lilting between playful and sincere.

Apricot waved and stepped into the dingy hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing off the warm glow of Bonni’s apartment. The corridor’s stale air pressed in immediately. Humming lights, peeling paint, the faint scent of old carpet.

A prickle of unease crawled up her spine. The rush of the morning was fading, replaced by the weight of what she was digging into. Apricot paused, taking a slow breath as the fluorescent hum buzzed in her ears.

One step at a time.

She started down the hall.

~

By midmorning, she was slouched in the back row of her journalism class, staring at a half-filled notebook like it might eventually write itself. Miss Akagi’s voice drifted from the front, something about ethical sourcing, conflicts of interest, transparency. Normally Apricot would be taking meticulous notes. Today, the words slid past her like water.

She twirled her pen, eyes unfocused, thoughts sinking into the same shadowed corners she’d been avoiding since dawn.

Shiori Kinjo had warned her about “the crisis” with that cutting certainty only a noble could wield. If he believed the phantoms were at the heart of the Blue Ash Crisis, then the other clans probably knew too. Maybe they always had.

Apricot tapped her pen against the notebook, the sound sharp in the quiet classroom.

The aristocrats had been covering everything up: disappearances, murders, “accidents,” the strange attacks no one could explain. The suppression campaigns, the quick clean-ups, the hush-hush statements. It all snapped into place with a cold logic that left no room for coincidence.

They know. They’ve known all along.

But that answer only opened more doors she wasn’t ready to walk through.

Her grip tightened on the pen. Chino Tokuma’s warning flickered through her mind. Something, someone, named Urias. A presence tied to the crisis like rot tied to wood.

Apricot swallowed hard, the classroom suddenly feeling too small, too bright.

Her pen hovered over the page, ink pooling at the tip.

What if the whole city is the altar?

The thought rose unbidden. Cold and clear and far too coherent to dismiss. Shiori’s warning. Chino’s letter. The zoning anomalies she’d traced at Sato’s apartment, streets that curved where no engineer would curve them, intersections that formed patterns visible only from above. All the scattered hints clicking together with a symmetry that made her stomach turn.

She stared at the half-formed thought and couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t write it down. Couldn’t make it that real.

Her hand began to shake. The pen scratched a jittery line across the paper.

What am I supposed to do about this? A few months ago she’d worried about midterms and article deadlines. Now she sat in a fluorescent-lit classroom with the shape of something monstrous pressing against the inside of her skull, and no one to tell, and nowhere to put it down.

She tightened her grip on the pen until the plastic creaked.

Keep going. That was all she had. Keep chasing the phantom stories. Keep acting like that’s all it was, a thrill-seeking journalism student poking at urban legends and freak incidents. If the nobles were watching, they’d see a nosy girl, not someone who’d begun to see the shape of the board.

It wasn’t a plan. It was barely a direction. But it was all she could hold without breaking.

“Miss Signa.”

The voice cut through her thoughts. Apricot jerked upright, heart slamming against her ribs.

Miss Akagi had stopped mid-lecture, arms folded, gaze pinned on Apricot from the front of the room. The professor’s smile was thin and sharp.

“Since you seem so deep in thought,” she said, “perhaps you can remind us of the four tenets of ethical journalism we’ve been discussing?”

A few students glanced back. Smirks, raised brows. Heat surged into Apricot’s cheeks.

She straightened, took a breath, and spoke with crisp confidence: “The tenets are: seek truth and report it, minimize harm, act independently, and be accountable.”

Her hands folded neatly over her notebook, hiding the tremor that had been there moments before. Her voice didn’t betray a thing.

Miss Akagi blinked, then nodded. “Correct.” She held the word for a beat, pointed in a gentle, surgical way, before pivoting back to her lecture.

Pens resumed scratching. Phones reappeared under desks. Apricot faded from the spotlight as quickly as she’d entered it.

Seek truth and report it.

The entire reason she was neck-deep in this nightmare in the first place.

She imagined pitching the real story. MONSTERS AMONG US. CITY OFFICIALS CONDUCT OCCULT SACRIFICES. Miss Akagi would combust on the spot. And the nobles? They’d make sure Apricot vanished long before the presses rolled.

She lowered her eyes to her notes. The warmth of answering correctly was already cooling into something hollow. What did a pop-quiz matter when she was wrestling with conspiracies masquerading as city infrastructure? She was living two lives that refused to touch, and the seam between them was getting thinner every day.

Don’t unravel. Not here.

Class ended. Miss Akagi’s closing remarks about public trust dissolved under the chorus of laptops snapping shut and students bolting for the door. Apricot slipped her notebook into her bag alongside the magazines, the word trust catching on her mind like a briar.

She wished she had someone she trusted enough to share the truth with. Bonni. Maybe Solenne. Someone who could carry a corner of this weight. But the risk loomed too large. How could she drag anyone else into this? Better they stay ignorant a little longer.

Apricot exhaled, steadying herself. The day wasn’t even half over. Somewhere between nightmares the previous evening, she’d decided she needed more than curiosity and adrenaline. She needed to be harder to kill.

Instead of heading home, she veered toward the campus gym.

It was already buzzing with life: the clang of weights, the thrum of treadmills, the echo of someone’s music bleeding from their earbuds. A few familiar faces waved as she entered. She returned the gestures with warm, automatic smiles, unable to place half their names.

Freshman-year classmates? People from her dorm? It hit her then, how far she’d drifted from normalcy. How much of her life had become shadows and secrets and phantoms. Her ordinary connections were blurring, fading at the edges.

She kept walking. She didn’t have the luxury of fading with them.

She crossed to an open corner of the aerobics area, settling onto a mat as upbeat music thumped overhead. Warm-up stretches came guided more by muscle memory than conscious thought. Toe-touches from childhood gymnastics. Lunges. Footwork patterns drilled into her during those brief fencing lessons in her early teens. Her joints protested, stiff from weeks of neglect, but the discomfort felt grounding.

When her body loosened, she moved to a practice space lined with mirrors. She tied her hair back, squared her stance, and began simple self-defense steps she barely remembered learning. Her arms cut the air with growing precision. In the mirror, she caught a flicker of movement and, for a heartbeat, imagined a phantom looming behind her: gaunt, ember-eyed, reaching.

She spun, pulse spiking.

Nothing. Just the gym. Just her own reflection, wide-eyed and shaking.

Apricot stared at herself, then shut her eyes and breathed slow. In. Out. She reset her stance and continued, letting the anxiety bleed into each focused motion.

One hour became two.

She shifted to a hanging sandbag, practicing kicks, dodges, quick pivots. Fencing footwork resurfaced: lunges, sidesteps, the sharp placement of weight. Her shirt grew soaked, sweat stinging her eyes. Her muscles burned. But her mind sharpened.

She wasn’t fearless. Not even close. But she wasn’t helpless, either.

When she finally stopped, her limbs shook and her breath came ragged, but a quiet calm settled through her. For the first time in days, she felt steady.

Apricot slung her towel over one shoulder and paused before the mirror wall. Sweat clung to her skin, hair tied back in a loose, damp knot. Her cheeks were flushed, her stance solid, her gaze clear.

I can do this, she mouthed. Barely a whisper.

She didn’t know if she believed it. But she’d said it, and her reflection hadn’t flinched.

That would have to be enough.