The Mirror of My Dreams

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 88 VP - 2800 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 75 VP - 6050 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 69 VP - 9100 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 62 VP - 5700 BP - 1 Achiev
Norah - 60 VP - 5050 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 56 VP - 4400 BP - 2 Achievs
Dawn - 54 VP -6500 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 46 VP - 3750 BP - 1 Achiev
Emily - 34 VP - 6300 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 17 VP - 5800 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 12 VP - 4475 BP - 1 Achiev
UPCOMING - 10 VP - 5584 BP

Andy woke to the room already saturated in gold, the suite’s blackout blinds left open so the morning could invade every polished surface. Even with his eyes closed, he knew he was alone; the absence had a weight of its own. It was strange, how quickly one could get used to waking up next to someone warm, someone cherished. He rolled out of bed and padded barefoot across the tile, pausing only to swipe a glass from the minibar and fill it with water. His hands shook so hard he had to clutch the glass with both, as if he’d just returned from a week at sea.

He paced, counting the slow thuds of his heels. The night before had left him unsettled, a flotsam of Arabella’s warnings and the rising certainty that something irreversible was coming for him—and for the women, especially. He set the glass down and pressed his hands to his face, palms cupped over his eyes. He could still see the Host’s gaze behind his eyelids: steady, too old for her body, and shining with the awful pity that always meant he was about to lose something.

Katherine watched him from across the bedroom, her painted feet sunk in a meadow of oil-bright poppies and wildflowers. In the new light, her skin was nearly luminous, every shadow soft enough to seem forgiving. She didn’t move at first, just observed with a patience he’d once thought was part of the art. But as he turned, she leaned in—just a fraction—her right shoulder pitching forward, hand hovering above her thigh as if she wanted to break the frame’s invisible wall.

He took the armchair facing her and dropped into it, elbows on knees. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared, as if by looking hard enough he could erase the line between their worlds.

“You know what’s coming, don’t you?” he said, voice hoarse. Katherine’s chin lifted, the barest degree. He read it as yes, or maybe just as readiness.

Andy exhaled, then let the words spill out. “Arabella said the next round would be worse. The transformations—” He shook his head. “I feel like they cut deeper each time. That I won’t be able to keep them together.” He stopped, then caught her gaze again. “I want to keep them together. I want them to stay themselves.”

Katherine’s left hand curled, fingers drumming on her thigh in a soft, nervous rhythm. He remembered how she used to try and pantomime writing letters in the air, or holding a cup, or running a thumb across her own jaw as if to check for a bruise. Now she just looked at him, unblinking, and waited.

“It’s stupid, I know,” Andy said. “You’re the one who should be angry. Or bitter. Or at least asking for something in return.” He swallowed, then managed a shaky laugh. “But you don’t, do you?”

She answered with a tiny shake of her head, then arched her back, straightening her posture so her hair slid down her shoulders and pooled around her ankles. The motion drew his focus, almost hypnotic. Even trapped in a painting, she had presence—a kind of gravity that made everything else feel like background.

He leaned in, elbows digging into the padding of the chair. “What do you want?” he asked, the words almost a whisper. “If you could have anything—what would you wish for?”

Katherine stilled, then brought her hands together, lacing her painted fingers in a gesture so natural it ached to watch. She bowed her head, almost in prayer, and pressed her thumbs to her lips. For a long, silent minute, she just held the pose.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she unclasped her hands. Her left traced the line of her own collarbone, coming to rest over her heart. Her right reached out, palm open, as if to cup someone else’s hand, someone just beyond the painted field. She closed her fingers in, making a fist and bringing it to her lips, as if to kiss the absent knuckles.

Andy blinked, and for a second he saw it—the memory, the wish. He watched as she let her fist drop, then used both hands to mimic the act of slipping a ring onto her own finger. She held her hand up, twisting it in the light, a small smile haunting the corner of her mouth. He’d never seen her so intent, so alive.

Then, with a delicacy that bordered on sacred, she splayed her fingers and curled her arms as if to cradle an infant. The motion was so careful, so precise, that he could almost see the child: the imagined weight, the curled head. Katherine rocked the ghost-bundle twice, then let her hands fall to her sides, her entire body collapsing in on itself like a tent losing its poles.

Andy swallowed, hard. His own hands went slack. He thought of the years she’d spent in the frame, and how a single minute of pantomime could say more than any hour of conversation.

He said, “I’m sorry. I can’t—” He stopped, then started again. “If I could give you a family, I would. If I could give you any of that, I would.” He let the words trail, useless.

Katherine straightened, just a little. Her hair swept forward, brushing against her breasts and groin, but never hiding them—she wasn’t allowed to, even if she tried. She reached up and pressed her right palm to the inside of the frame, fingers splayed wide.

He understood the gesture. He’d seen it before, in moments of comfort or need. It was how she said thank you, how she said I need you.

He rose from the chair and crossed to her, stopping just short of the canvas. He pressed his own palm to the glass, lining up his fingers with hers as best he could. It wasn’t touch, not really, but the heat from his skin left a fogged oval on the surface, mirroring the print of her much smaller painted hand.

“I’ll keep you with us,” he said, his voice steadier now. “I’ll make sure you have a place, even if it’s just a seat at the table, or a voice at breakfast, or someone to remember you when the rest are gone.” He blinked, then **** a smile.

Katherine’s eyes shone—not with tears, but with something like gratitude. Her lips parted, and for a second he thought she might try to speak, to find some loophole in the rules of her existence. Instead, she just held the pose, her hand flush against his, her head tilted so the black curtain of her hair framed her face.

He felt his own eyes sting, but he didn’t look away. He let the silence fill in the spaces, let it become something sacred and true.

They stood like that until the sun had climbed high enough to turn the room white, until Andy’s arm went numb and his hand left a permanent outline on the glass.

He stepped back, the air shock-cold after the contact. Katherine followed him with her gaze, the smile still faint but alive.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he promised, and she nodded, her posture as proud and unbowed as it had ever been.

He left the room, but the hush of it followed him—through the suite, down the stairs, and into the day that waited, hungry for its next loss.

He stepped out of the elevator and walked up to the Commissary. Claire had mentioned the round would end with the transformation ceremony, and Andy had not yet claimed his two free upgrades for the previous one. It had occurred to him in the morning that this was his last chance, though he wasn’t sure what he could upgrade that wouldn’t give him even more unwanted power. Still, it wouldn't hurt to check.

The Gift menu opened up. Every time, it looked to him like an old-school skill tree from some sort of vintage video game. He knew the girls had upgrades they could claim, but he didn’t know whether they could upgrade each transformation more than once or twice. In the case of his Gifts, it seemed most, if not all, allowed up to five levels, although he could only see the upgrade immediately above his Gift’s current tier.

He didn’t have a lot of time, so he quickly read the descriptions. He had two free upgrades, but they had to be applied to different Gifts. He suspected there would be an Audience poll to upgrade one of his Gifts this time too.

Then he blinked.

Console++: The Master receives additional cheat codes. If given a chance to study a transformation exhaustively (by having sex with the Contestant for five times in a single round), the Master can create a cheat code which can be used to either apply that transformation to someone else, or tweak it on the original owner, until the end of the round.

That… that could mean anything and nothing. But could he risk not taking it, not knowing what transformations Arabella had devised for today? He wasn't sure how he could 'tweak' them, but... this could be huge, for crippling transformations. Did he dare pass it up? And of course, the programmer part of him wondered what new cheat codes would be unlocked, although he had to admit he hadn't used the existing ones as much as he should have (at least the ones that wouldn't directly affect the women). He made a mental note to experiment more, this coming round.

Command’s fourth tier allowed his Commands to work on anyone less powerful than he was, not just harem members. He wasn’t planning on ruling the world, and had no idea how ‘less powerful’ was defined, so he discarded that. He had already seen the Connect+ option during the last poll, and while he could envision it being helpful to spend some time with more of the women, the distance limitation and the fact it didn’t count towards the mandatory 24 hours was not particularly attractive.

Conflate+: The Master can use the ability 1/round/contestant. For purposes of keeping track, the ability is considered 'used' on the first contestant touched, the 'source'. He can use this ability no more than 3/round. The Master can also choose to Conflate physical attributes between Source and Recipient, averaging them out.

That could be interesting, if he ever intended to use it. He had forgotten he even had been given this Gift, to be honest. Still, the thought of the foursome with Marissa, Erin and Claire before the challenge intruded in his mind. Could he have used this to make them feel more pleasure? Given Erin’s transformations, it would have blown Marissa’s and Claire’s minds away. He couldn’t help but grin at the idea.

Coauthor+: The Master can modify up to five words per round per Contestant. He can also add or remove words altogether.

Andy was hoping Coauthor+ would remove the requirement to use the Gift once per round, but perhaps it would be unlocked later? He hesitated for a moment, then picked the choices that seemed more helpful: Console++ and Conflate+. Satisfied, he left the Commissary.

Andy stepped from the marble lobby into full sunlight, blinking as the air hit him like a thrown towel—briny and humming with cicada song. The path down to the main beach was white sand, the sort that always crept between your toes no matter how fast you walked. He followed its curl, outpacing his shadow, until the view opened up and he saw them: the women, already gathered in the shade of the grand gazebo, clustered in a way that was both conspiratorial and anxious.

The structure was so bright it hurt to look at, every edge crisp against the glare. Eleven stools for eleven contestants. His white-painted throne at the center, empty but waiting. The women filled the rest: Erin perched on the edge of a stool, arms crossed but face warm when she spotted Andy; Dawn and Chloe, side by side, the former sunshine in motion, the latter subdued, her smile flickering on and off. Claire sat at the end, notebook balanced on her knee, tail tip making small circles on the wood, her eyes never quite leaving the water. Emily was already there, legs tucked under her, hair a soft curtain over bare shoulders; she waved as he approached, the motion quick, then shy again. Even Riley was present, standing with her back to a pillar, the set of her jaw as taut as the day before, but her nod to Andy was not unkind. Sam, who had arrived just a moment before him, held court over the water carafe, filling glasses for anyone who would accept. Liesa sat down meekly on her stool, and Emi stared curiously at the distant heat shimmer, wondering who and what it would bring now.

The group fell quiet as soon as Andy drew close, though Claire at least tried to hide the abruptness by offering him a smile and a surreptitious squeeze of his hand. The rest were less subtle. Erin grinned and patted the throne’s armrest, like she wanted to muscle him into place herself. Dawn waved a little, then went instantly bashful, looking anywhere but at him. Emily tucked her knees up and wriggled in place, giddy but uncertain. Chloe and Riley both just watched him, their gazes parallel, their histories separate but similarly edged.

He sat, a little off-center on the throne. The cold sun and the glare off the painted railings made it hard to see much beyond the women, so for a minute he just watched them all, like it might be the last time he could.

Liesa and Emi hovered on the periphery—Liesa in her usual half-curl, nervous but absorbing every detail, Emi running a fingertip along the groove where the support pillar met the floor, three hands fidgeting at once.

Sam, who had apparently had a bit too much to drink last night, massaged her temples and muttered, “Just get on with it already,” loud enough for everyone to hear. It broke the spell enough that a ripple of laughter went through the group.

Arabella arrived as if the air were her personal stage. She wore a white gown that trailed three steps behind her, and her hair was twisted up with a dozen tiny white orchids threaded into the coils. She looked like she belonged to the sea, or to a wedding, or maybe just to a different century.

She stopped at the edge of the circle, hands clasped before her, and let her eyes play over the group until every woman’s gaze had met hers at least once.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, and her voice carried like it had been made to. “I trust you all survived last night’s… festivities.”

The group made a show of groaning and feigning injury. Erin clapped a hand to her chest and said, “The tequila nearly finished what the paintballs couldn’t.”

Sam grinned. “I think Emi’s still drunk.”

Emi, who absolutely was not, just gave a four-handed shrug and a bashful giggle.

The group’s laughter died by consensus, as if everyone had felt the temperature drop at the same instant. Andy waited for the joke to resume, but Arabella only smiled and lifted her hand, like a conductor about to cue the section that would shatter the entire movement.

“We have business before pleasure, I’m afraid,” she said, her gaze sweeping the arc of stools. “As always, a new arrival joins us at the start of the week.”

No one moved. Even Erin, who usually kept things light, just crossed her arms and looked away, lips pressed tight.

Arabella let the silence sharpen. “You’re all familiar with the process,” she continued, “but this time is a little different. Our newest guest is—” She paused, the dramatic rhythm as measured as breath. “—a late addition, and needs some special care. I know you’ll make her feel at home.”

Andy tried to read her face, but it was pure Host: perfect, poised, as unknowable as a trick of the sun on the waves.

Dawn half-raised her hand, then dropped it, as if she’d thought better of speaking.

Arabella turned to the sand, fixing her gaze just beyond the gazebo. “She’s almost here,” she said, and then—nothing. The air thickened, the world holding its breath.

The shimmer on the path came first, a heat mirage with legs. For a moment, the form was so indistinct Andy thought he’d hallucinated it: a blue-white ghost staggering toward them, swaying as though dragged by invisible wires. Then the heat abated, and the ghost resolved into a woman in a hospital gown, barefoot and bare-legged, clutching the thin fabric to her chest like a drowning person holding a life ring.

She walked with all the purpose of a sleepwalker, step after step down the burning path, until her knees buckled. She hit the sand hard, a sound that was part thud, part surrender.

No one moved. Not even Arabella.

The woman didn’t cry out. She just stayed there, hands white-knuckled in the sand, her breathing a sharp, fast staccato. She wore her hair loose, brown and shiny and cut with ruthless precision, but now it was sweat-damp and tangled. Her face was stark, the bones of it made more prominent by the bruises of sleeplessness beneath her eyes.

Andy looked to Arabella, expecting the Host to intervene. But Arabella only said, “She’ll need a moment,” her voice quiet enough that only the front row could hear.

After a minute, the woman pushed herself upright. She lifted her head, eyes fixed straight ahead. The irises were a striking green-flecked hazel—beautiful, but unfocused. She didn’t look at the gazebo, or at Arabella, or at any of the women. Her head moved in small, nervous sweeps, as if she was taking a census of sounds, not sights.

Andy felt something jag in his chest. There was something to that look. A nagging feeling in the back of his brain. He looked to Arabella, but the Host’s gaze was fixed on the woman, lips parted as if she, too, was waiting to see if the newcomer would break or bear it.

The woman fumbled forward, hands mapping the sand. She squinted in the direction of the surf, then at the sky, then—at last—toward the gazebo. “Hello?” she called, her voice high and sharp, like a child’s on the first day of camp. “Is—am I supposed to—”

Arabella stepped down from the gazebo, but she didn’t approach. “You’re right on time,” she said, the Host’s voice dialed down to a warmth Andy had never heard in public before.

The woman jerked her chin, orienting toward the voice. “Where am I?” she asked. “Please—can someone tell me?”

Arabella spread her hands, as if to say: go on, Andy. The gesture was tiny, but Andy knew a direct order when he saw one.

He left the throne and crossed the white planks, bare feet hitting the sand with a small crunch. The closer he got, the more apparent it became: the new arrival was around his age, but she wore exhaustion like a shield. She knelt in the sand, hands braced, refusing to let her body collapse even now. Her eyes were unfocused, and she tilted her head as if desperately trying to make sense of the environment around her. With a shudder, he realized she must be blind.

He crouched a few feet from her. “You’re okay,” he said. “I know you’re disoriented, but it will be okay. You’re on a beach. The path is behind you, and the water’s about thirty yards out.”

The hospital gown looked even more absurd up close, a cheap blue thing barely able to contain its owner’s modesty. The new arrival clutched at it, fingers bunching the fabric at her collarbone so hard her knuckles turned white. Andy kept his distance—not out of caution, but in deference to whatever it was that had gotten her here so battered. He waited while she drew ragged breaths, watched as her hands—small, strong, surgeon’s hands—groped in the sand for a fixed point.

“Water,” she said again, this time with a note of certainty. “And voices. Are you…?”

He finished for her: “Andy. I’m Andy. You’re safe. We’re on an island, there’s a group up at the gazebo. You came down the path—”

She started to scramble up, but the motion cost her. Her legs trembled, and she almost toppled before Andy caught her by the forearm. She hissed at the contact, more startled than pained, then immediately tried to compose herself. “Sorry. I—I don’t want to be a problem. Just—can you tell me if there’s anything behind me? Any obstacles?”

He looked over her shoulder. “Just sand and sky. You’ve got space.”

She nodded, chin set. She straightened the gown, pulling at the hem with the same nervous energy she’d used on the collar. Her eyes—hazel, or maybe green—flicked past Andy, searching for something they couldn’t find.

She said, “I’m not used to this. To not seeing.” There was grief in her voice.

Andy’s heart dropped. He had hoped he was wrong.

He moved slow, making sure she’d hear every step. “You want to come up to the gazebo with me?” He said it as gently as he could, like you would to someone waking up from anesthesia.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Please.”

He offered his arm—not sure if that was protocol or not—and to his surprise, she took it, her grip almost painful. They started up the beach, the sun hot even at this hour, and Andy narrated the path for her. “We’re on packed sand. The air’s got a lot of salt, and there’s a line of rocks to our right. You want to go around or over?”

She mulled it, then said, “Over. I need to practice.”

He let her lead the way, keeping just enough tension on her arm that he could catch her if she missed. She cleared the rocks, knees wobbling a little, but didn’t stumble.

They walked in silence for a few yards, then she asked, “Are the others watching?”

Andy risked a look. All the women under the gazebo had stopped what they were doing. Even Erin, who prided herself on her poker face, looked visibly rattled. Claire watched with both hands pressed over her mouth, tail frozen mid-twitch. Riley’s jaw was a rigid line, as if she’d just bitten through a lemon wedge.

He said, “Yeah. But it’s not what you think. They’re just worried.”

The woman made a noise—a sound that was half laugh, half breathless exhale. “Is that so,” she said, and it was obvious she didn’t believe him, not for a second.

They reached the base of the steps. She fumbled for the first riser with her foot, then clambered up, never letting go of Andy’s arm. “I’m sorry,” she said, quieter this time. “I’ve only been like this a few days. It’s all muscle memory and nothing else. I feel like a kid again.”

Andy didn’t know what to say, so he just let her hold on.

They reached the top, and he guided her to the first empty stool. She let go of his arm, then hovered her hand over the seat as if she expected it to disappear at any second. When she finally sat, it was with a visible exhale, like she’d just completed a marathon.

Andy introduced her. “This is—” He paused. It was only now, with her perched on the stool, hair falling into her face, that he realized he still didn’t know her name.

The woman took the cue. “Myra. Myra Calder.”

The words hung there, sharp as a needle prick.

Myra. Myra Calder.

The name was nothing for a full second—just a sound, a placeholder for this trembling, freshly-blind woman in a hospital gown. Then the world spun, and every locked box in Andy's memory snapped open at once.

There were three names from Warrenville that could do this to him: Laura, Chloe, and the newest one added to the list: Myra. He hadn’t thought of Myra in more than a decade, not since middle school, not since she’d drifted out of orbit after Laura’s funeral. Her face was different now—thinner, the cheeks hollow, the eyes dimmed and ruined—but the voice had not changed. He heard it now with a clarity that made his teeth clench. He flashed back to the Memory Cabana, to what Riley had shown him.

“I can’t believe Andy would do this to me,” Laura whispered, voice thick. “After Myra told me what happened with Chloe… She said he kissed Chloe behind the gym,” Laura said, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “She said he laughed about it, said I was just… just a freak he pitied. I thought he was different. I thought…”

A soundless tidal wave crashed through him.

Andy realized he'd frozen, one hand still inches from Myra’s shoulder, his whole body suddenly colder than the shade under the gazebo. He glanced up and saw that Chloe’s entire body had gone rigid, her hands locked in her lap, nails white against skin. Riley’s jaw had set, the muscle jumping in her cheek, her eyes suddenly as cold towards the blind woman as they had been last round, with him. Claire was watching Andy, not the newcomer, her blue eyes wide and unblinking, as she felt the shift in him as it happened.

Arabella alone seemed undisturbed. She stepped up onto the gazebo platform, smoothing the white fabric of her dress before she spoke. “Thank you for joining us, Myra,” she said, and the honey in her voice was so smooth it almost disguised the razor edge beneath.

Myra nodded, but her focus was inward. “Thank you,” she said, then folded her hands tight in her lap. Her posture was brittle, every muscle held taut in a way that suggested the only thing keeping her upright was pure stubbornness.

Andy took a step back, needing the space like air. The urge to bolt was overwhelming—a primal, terrified instinct he hadn’t felt since the day he watched Laura’s casket drop into the earth, and he’d realized for the first time that the world didn’t care about fairness or wishes or even decency. He **** himself to breathe, then reached for the carafe and poured a full glass, hands shaking so badly the rim clinked against the pitcher.

The silence was so deep you could hear the scratch of Emi’s thumb against her own wrist. Finally, Arabella broke it, the Host’s smile so bright it was almost a dare.

“I’m sure you’re all eager to welcome Myra to the group,” she said, her gaze flicking from Andy to the women and back again. “But let’s begin with introductions, for the benefit of our newest arrival. Why don’t we go around?”

The group was a scattered arc of stools and benches, everyone finding their own center of gravity. Claire's eyes never left Andy's face, tracking the minute shifts in his expression. She reached out, her fingertips brushing Myra's wrist so lightly it might have been a breeze.

"That's Claire," Erin said, her voice steady. "She can't speak. And I'm Erin." She leaned forward, the bench creaking beneath her. "Claire's sitting to your left."

Myra turned her head toward the touch, a small but genuine smile forming. "Claire. Erin. Thank you."

Claire withdrew her hand, her attention already back on Andy. He felt her concern like a physical weight.

Dawn went next, her voice bright but careful. “Dawn. I’m… if you need anything, I’m good at getting it. Even if it’s just water.”

Myra smiled, faint. “Thank you, Dawn.”

Emily spoke up, a little tentative. “Emily. Welcome.” The word was heavy with something more, but Myra seemed to miss it, instinctively wringing her hands in nervousness.

The group continued, each name a lifeline thrown across the silence. Liesa’s was next, then Emi’s, then Sam, who just said, “Sam,” like it was an answer to a riddle.

Then it was Chloe’s turn.

She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at Myra, her face gone white and her lips pressed together so hard they almost disappeared. When she did speak, her voice was so soft Andy barely heard it.

“I’m Chloe,” she said, then swallowed. “We… knew each other, once. A long time ago.”

Myra’s head jerked, the recognition immediate. “Chloe?” She tried to look at her, but her gaze sailed off to the side, catching nothing. “I—yes. Of course. You’re…” She didn’t finish, but the word hung in the air, radioactive.

Riley was next, and she didn’t bother with courtesy. “Riley Anderson,” she said, voice flat. “You remember me, too, right?”

Myra flinched at that, the old hierarchy coming back with a vengeance. “I—yes. Of course, Riley.”

Andy couldn’t look at any of them. He turned his gaze to the water, the bright white of the surf a smear on the horizon.

Arabella let the tension build, then said, “And this is Andy.” She turned to Myra, a sly smile in the set of her jaw. “Andy Cooper.”

The words hit like a punch to the ribs. For a second, Andy thought Myra might collapse. She gripped the sides of the stool, her knuckles gone waxy. “Andy Cooper?” she echoed, the name almost a gasp. “I… you’re—”

He couldn’t bring himself to answer. He just grunted.

Myra went quiet, her face crumpling around the mouth, the eyes gone wide and wet. “I can’t—I don’t—” She stopped, then pressed her hands together until the bones popped. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice gone thin. “I didn’t know.”

Chloe made a sound—half laugh, half broken thing. “No one ever tells us,” she said, and Andy felt his heart twist in his chest. Riley’s glare burned holes in the deck, but she said nothing.

Arabella let the silence ring a few more seconds, then moved to Myra’s side and rested a cool, steadying hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe here,” she said, her tone so soothing it almost sounded sincere. “Everyone here has been through something. There’s no need to apologize.”

Myra nodded, but her mouth kept opening and closing, as if she was chasing a question she couldn’t frame.

Andy watched as the group recalibrated itself around the new arrival. Erin softened, her posture going from wary to protective in a blink. Dawn slid her stool a little closer, a silent offering of presence. Emily scooted over and reached out, just barely touching Myra’s hand. Even Sam, who could have been an ice sculpture, gave a slow, approving nod.

Chloe and Riley were another story. Chloe kept her eyes fixed on the sand, her breath shallow and rapid. Riley watched Myra with a predator’s patience, jaw flexing with every swallow.

Claire wrote something, then passed it to Andy: Are you okay?

He shook his head, but managed a smile. He was not okay. He was nowhere close to okay.

Arabella gave Myra’s shoulder one last squeeze, then returned to the front of the group, her Host smile back in place. “Thank you, everyone. You’ve all done beautifully. In a few moments, we’ll discuss the details of the next challenge, and your roles in it. For now, please help Myra get settled. She’ll need friends, and I trust you’ll all rise to the occasion.”

She turned on her heel, gown swirling in the sun, and left the group to its awkward hush.

No one spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Erin stood and said, “I’ll get you some water, Myra.” She left without waiting for an answer. Dawn moved to help, and Emily followed, her hair trailing behind her like a soft flag.

That left Andy with the core: Claire, Chloe, Riley, and Myra. The silence stretched between them, thick as fog.

Myra's hands trembled as they explored the edges of her stool. "Where am I?" she finally whispered, her voice cracking. "I was in St. Luke's. Room 304. They told me—" Her fingers clutched at the hospital gown still draped over her knees. "The optic nerve damage was irreversible."

Andy opened his mouth, closed it again.

"Please," Myra said, her face angled slightly left of where his voice had come from. "I don't understand. How did I get here? Who are all the others?"

Chloe shifted on her seat, the wood creaking beneath her. Myra's head jerked toward the sound, her unseeing eyes wide with panic.

"You're safe," Chloe said, the words automatic, hollow. Myra's head jerked toward the voice.

“I don't understand." Her knuckles whitened around the stool edge. "Is this some kind of hospital transfer? Why am I outside?"

Riley shifted, the bench creaking beneath her. Myra flinched at the sound.

"I need to call my department," Myra said, voice rising. "They're expecting me back when—when I stabilize. I have patients." Her breathing quickened. "Please, I need a phone."

Claire pressed a steadying hand against Andy's back, keeping him rooted as the sun climbed higher, bleaching all the shadows to nothing.

They sat in the hush, the sea and the sky stretching on forever, while Myra's confusion filled the space between them like smoke.

They weren’t left long in silence. Arabella glided back to the center of the gazebo with a sweep of her gown, letting the hush grow intentional before she began.

“Thank you, everyone, for your patience,” she said, voice tuned to the hush but strong enough to reach the furthest edge of the deck. “Myra, I imagine you have many questions. If you wish, you may ask them now. Or, if you prefer, I can give you the basics.”

Myra shook her head, eyes searching in the direction of Arabella’s voice. “Please,” she said, “I’d rather just know what’s expected of me.”

Arabella nodded. “Of course. You are now part of a special group. The rules are simple, even if the situation isn’t. For a while, you will live here, under my care, as part of a harem bound to Andy.” She turned, including the women in her gaze. “No one will notice you are gone. Your job, your affections, any pets you may have will be safe. Your choices, your loyalty, and your cooperation will determine how long you stay, and in what form.”

“In what form?” Myra echoed.

Arabella smiled. "The transformations. Each of you receives an initial one, to mark your entry. After that, the audience—our beloved, meddlesome audience—selects additional changes each week. Sometimes physical, sometimes behavioral, always interesting." She offered Myra a glass of water.

"Transformations?" Myra's voice cracked, fingers wrapping around the glass as if it were a lifeline. "What are you talking about?"

"If you win a challenge, you're protected for a while," Arabella continued as if Myra hadn't spoken. "If not... the odds of further transformation increase."

Myra gulped down the water. "This isn't funny. I'm in internal medicine. There's no such thing as—"

"Dawn," Arabella said softly. "Would you mind?"

A rustle of movement. Then someone took Myra's right hand.

"I'm going to place your fingers on something," a gentle voice said. "Don't be afraid."

Myra's fingers touched something soft, warm—fur?—that twitched beneath her touch. She jerked back. "What is that?"

"My ears," Dawn said quietly. "Rabbit ears. From my last transformation."

"That's impossible," Myra whispered, her medical training warring with the evidence of her fingertips. "This is some kind of elaborate—"

"Emi has six arms now," someone else offered. "And Claire has a cat’s tail."

Myra's breath came in shallow gasps. "I can't—I don't—" Her voice rose. "I just lost my sight. I can't process this too. Please, I need to go home."

"You adapt," Arabella said, her words brisk but not unkind. "Or you leave, one way or another. But you're not alone in this. These women are your team, your family."

"I already have a family," Myra said, her voice breaking. "Patients who need me. A department waiting for me to recover. I can't just—"

"Would you like to begin?" Arabella interrupted, tilting her head. "Or do you need a moment?"

Myra sat, spine rigid, tears streaming down her face. "Begin," she whispered, the fight draining from her voice. "Please. Just get it over with."

Arabella approached, her bare feet silent on the painted wood. She knelt before Myra, close enough to make contact if needed, and the white of her dress spilled out over the sunlit planks. "Very well," she said, gentle. "Your initial transformation is called Echoes of Inner Worlds." She reached up, brushing a strand of Myra's hair away from her face. "You will find yourself sensitive to the feelings around you. Not thoughts—never that—but the weather of the room: anger, grief, happiness, desire. You'll feel it in your bones, in the air, in the tension of a word or a glance. Sometimes strong, sometimes faint, but always there."

• Echoes of Inner Worlds: Myra hasn’t always understood how her actions could hurt others. She has grown, but now, she will have ****. Myra will be sensitive to feelings around her, although she won’t be able to sense or pinpoint their origin. The stronger the feeling, the more it will drown others, and arousal will be the strongest of them all. Negative feelings of significant magnitude may be painful to sense. (Empath)

Myra’s breath quickened. “Will it hurt?” she asked, so softly that only Arabella and Andy could have heard.

“It depends,” Arabella said, honest. “On the emotions present. On you.”

She placed two fingers to Myra’s temple, just above the arch of her cheekbone. The contact was feather-light, but Myra tensed as if expecting an electric shock. Arabella closed her eyes, and for a second, the whole world contracted to the space between Host and Contestant.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Myra sucked in a breath and staggered back, clutching the edge of her stool for balance. She whimpered, her face crumpling as if in pain. Her eyes fluttered wide, panic slicing through the aftermath. “It’s—” She pressed both palms to her forehead. “Too loud. Too sharp. I can’t—”

She turned, blind, but with precision: her face lined up almost perfectly with Andy and Riley.

“Anger,” she whispered. “It burns—” She doubled over, panting, as if the air itself had just caught fire in her lungs.

Andy flinched so hard he nearly dropped his glass. He felt his own fury—complicated, unwilling, hot as an ember—and knew instantly that it had found its mark in her. It was a pain as direct as a slap.

Riley, to her credit, didn’t even blink. She let her own silent rage wash forward, and Myra recoiled further, both hands locked in her hair.

Arabella moved quickly, her voice now a balm. “Breathe through it,” she instructed, hand on Myra’s back. “Let the feeling crest and pass. Don’t try to fight it. You’ll get better at it, with time.”

Myra **** herself upright, jaw trembling. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I’m not—”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Arabella soothed. “But now you understand how it works. In this place, no one’s feelings are secret for long.”

Andy managed to set his glass down. His own hands were shaking again, but he didn’t try to steady them. It was too late for that now.

Arabella turned back to the group. “That’s the first transformation. There will be three more, selected by the audience. Soon, we will announce the options.”

Myra gave a tight nod, still braced against the seat.

Then, as if on cue, Erin let out a low whistle. “Hell of a welcome package,” she said, not quite joking.

Andy couldn’t help it; he found himself watching her, not for the old wounds, but for the way she rebuilt herself in real time. He watched as the color returned to her face, as she steadied her breathing, as she tried to be more than the sum of her damage.

And a part of him - an ugly, twisted part that he had never thought could have such power over him - hated her for that.