Roll for Initiative

You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 79 VP - 800 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 57 VP - 7200 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 56 VP - 4300 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 54 VP - 2900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 44 VP - 3750 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 43 VP - 4500 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 29 VP - 4550 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 27 VP - 4050 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 8 VP - 2975 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 6 VP - 4300 BP

The elevator opened onto the main lobby with a quiet hiss, and Andy felt every molecule of tension in Emily's posture as she stepped through the threshold. The Main Lobby in the Harem Hotel was elegant, all marble floors, spotless walls, designed to impress, but the effect was magnified when you were walking in naked, or in Emily's case, nearly naked and accompanied by the one man on the property who could, with a single word, decide your fate.

Her hair—a tidal wave of gold and pink—rippled over her shoulders and down her back, all the way to her thighs. Andy noticed how she angled her body as they walked, letting the curtain of hair do its work, but every so often a turn or a gust of air would expose the skin of her breast, or the triangle of her inner thigh. Each time this happened, Emily's hands twitched—sometimes covering, sometimes just fidgeting—and her expression would tighten for a split second before she remembered to smile. He realized these were tells of her nervousness, since she had not seemed this self-conscious, alone with him.

They passed near a cleaning Mildred who gave Emily a quick, subtle glance, all venom and sweet adoration. If she noticed, she didn't show it; Andy was more aware of the glances than she was.

"You okay?" he whispered.

She nodded, but her voice came out thin: "I keep imagining eight women staring at me like I'm an exhibit."

He smiled. Should he mention there were ten now, and one wanted to kill him? "You get used to it. But if you want to hide behind me, just say the word. Or, you know, let me walk ahead and take the fire."

Her eyes darted to his face, then away, as if remembering he was a man—the first since Jake—seeing her like this. She grinned, her fingers fidgeting with a strand of hair. "I think I'll stick with you for now," she said. "At least you're a known quantity."

They headed for the Banquet Hall. It was morning, but the lights were up and the air had the overcaffeinated, second-day-of-the-conference energy that Andy had always hated about hotels. He slowed a little, letting the last of the nerves settle before they rounded the corner.

"One heads-up," he said, voice low. "There's a woman in there—Riley. The newest Contestant… well, apart from you, if you join. She has history with me. Not… good history. If she's hostile, it's not about you, I promise."

Emily's eyes flicked to his, just for a second. "What happened?"

He considered, then said, "She was best friends with someone who died. Sixteen years ago. It's complicated."

Emily let that rest. "I won't take it personally."

He appreciated the effort.

As they approached the Banquet Hall, Emily tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then used the motion to mask a subtle shift of her arms—crossing them, then relaxing, then crossing again. Andy realized that, for all her self-possession, she was bracing for impact.

The doors swung open.

The room went nearly silent.

At the head of the longest table, Chloe sat upright, hands folded, her huge breasts creating a kind of natural barrier between her and the rest of the spread. Sam was beside her, already halfway out of her chair, a blue streak in her hair catching the overhead light. Dawn, bunny ears at attention, stood behind her chair and blinked twice, jaw dropping. Marissa was at the far end, a legal pad open and a pen already in her hand, like she'd been expecting to take notes on the occasion. Emi whispered something to Norah, who nodded without taking her eyes off Emily. Claire, cat ears up, stood beside Liesa, who was arranging cut fruit on a platter with the delicate precision of a jeweler.

Andy cleared his throat. "Everyone, this is Emily Allen. She's… new. But not that new, in the grand scheme."

The women watched, some curious, some skeptical, some downright predatory. Chloe, to her credit, stood and offered her hand to Emily, who took it without hesitation, managing to bow her head in greeting without exposing anything more than intended.

"Chloe," she said, voice warm. "It's good to meet you. You look—" She hesitated, then continued: "You look very comfortable."

Emily smiled, her face flushing . "It's not really bravery if you don't have a choice," she said, and the honesty landed harder than expected.

Sam stepped in, offering a chair and a conspiratorial wink. "Don't let them fool you. Half of us have been naked in here at one point or another. It's a rite of passage."

Erin, without turning, said, "Speak for yourself. I'm still waiting for the day they let me wear a hoodie."

Emily shot a grateful look at Erin, then at Andy, who shrugged, as if to say, See? They're not so bad.

Liesa made space at the table and nudged a plate of melon slices toward Emily, who sat down carefully, hair fanned out behind her like a cape. Andy took the chair beside her, but only after making sure she didn't want him elsewhere.

Conversation restarted, halting at first. Most of the women had clearly not been briefed on the new arrival, but Sam and Chloe picked up the slack, steering the talk to food, weather, and whether or not they thought the volcano outside was real.

Emily navigated the attention with increasing ease. Every so often she'd catch someone staring—Dawn, especially, couldn't seem to stop herself—but instead of freezing, Emily would make a joke, or cover herself with a hand and a smile, or simply acknowledge the weirdness by raising her eyebrows.

After the first volley of glances and pleasantries, Andy expected the old harem dynamic to take over: the way the conversation orbited the newest arrival, hungry for gossip and hierarchy. Instead, there was a kind of reverence, as if the table were holding its breath to see how Emily would handle herself. Maybe it was the way she sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, or maybe it was just that her presence reset all the expectations the others had spent weeks cultivating.

Emi broke the spell first. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright but careful. "So, um, I was wondering about your hair—does it help with, you know..." She gestured vaguely at Emily's body, her cheeks flushing slightly. "The whole situation?"

Emily laughed, a real one this time. "Depends on the day," she said, letting her hair fall across her shoulders like a demonstration. "Some days I forget, until I pass a mirror. Then I remember, and it's like—oh, right, this is my life now." She looked down at her arm, as if expecting to find a tattoo. "But most of the time, it's just... background noise."

Erin grunted, "That tracks." She didn't look up from her bowl of granola, but the statement carried more weight than it should have.

Liesa smiled at Emily. "Your hair is amazing. Do you style it to... you know..." She gestured vaguely at Emily's body.

"It's part of the transformation," Emily replied, fingers raking through the gold and pink strands that draped strategically over her breasts and hips. "If I don't braid it or tie it up, it just... arranges itself like this. Barely decent, but decent enough."

Erin grunted into her coffee. "Must be nice. My transformation didn't come with built-in modesty features."

Norah snorted, looking up from her yogurt. "You ever trip on it? I tripped over my own shoelaces three days ago, fell right into Andy's lap." She blushed, then shot Andy a dirty look, like he'd orchestrated the whole thing. "But at least I had pants on."

Sam took the opening: "That's a question—does the hair ever, you know, get in the way?" She made a vague hand gesture, waggling her eyebrows. "Of, like, activities?"

Emily blushed so hard the tips of her ears went pink, but she grinned through it. "Every day. Cooking is a hazard, whether I let it hang or not." She let that hang, the table erupting in laughter.

The scrape of chair legs against floor cut through the laughter. Erin stood, coffee mug in hand, and walked deliberately around the table. She settled into the empty seat beside Emily, her own nakedness somehow defiant as she positioned herself between the newcomer and the rest of the group.

"Alright, enough with the third degree," Erin said, her voice firm but not unkind. She placed her mug down with a decisive clink. "She just got here, for Christ's sake. Let her breathe."

Emily glanced at Erin, surprise flickering across her face.

"But we're just—" Dawn began, ears drooping slightly.

"Being friendly, I know," Erin cut in, crossing her arms. "But she's probably had enough people staring at her body for one morning." She turned to Emily, her expression softening. "You want some actual breakfast before these vultures pick you apart, Em?"

Andy watched the shift in dynamics with quiet amazement. Erin, who normally kept to herself, had transformed into something like a protective older sister. Not only that, but she had already jumped to nicknaming her.

Chloe raised an eyebrow but nodded slightly, respecting the boundary. Marissa's pen stilled on her legal pad, her analytical gaze now moving between Erin and Emily with renewed interest. Andy caught her glance, and she gave the barest of nods, as if to say, This is unexpected, but good.

The only holdout was Riley, who sat at the farthest table, arms folded, jaw set. She didn't make eye contact with Emily, but she also didn't make a scene. Instead, she seemed intent on boring a hole in the table with the sheer **** of her scowl. Andy wondered if he should say something, but Emily didn't seem to notice—or, if she did, she was too focused on survival to care.

Eventually, the talk turned to the day's agenda. It was then that Andy felt Emily relax, her shoulders dropping as she realized she wasn't being judged. Not really.

Chloe finished her coffee, then turned to Andy. "So, how'd you meet?" she asked, gesturing at Emily. "I mean, was there, like, a mixer for former contestants?"

Emily smiled, letting Andy take the lead.

He said, "We met last night. Arabella invited her to spend some time here, see if the fit was right. No obligations."

Sam leaned in. "Was it super weird?"

Emily answered before Andy could. "Only the first ten minutes. After that, it's just awkward like any other first date. Minus the clothes."

Erin snorted again, louder this time. "You get used to those, too."

Emily glanced at her, something like respect flickering in her eyes. "How long have you—"

"Three days," Erin replied, quietly. "It's not going away anytime soon."

There was a beat of silence, then Emily said, "If you want tips for hiding things, I have a few." She gestured at her hair, as if it were a magical talisman.

Erin cracked a smile. "I'm good. If Andy wants to look, he can look. That's the rule, right?" She said it to Andy, but there was no heat behind it, just a dry challenge.

He raised his hands, surrendering. "I'm not objecting." She smiled.

Dawn, quiet until now, piped up: "You said you used to work as a bartender? Was that in the city?" Her bunny ears twitched with genuine curiosity.

Emily nodded. "Brooklyn, mostly. I did art school during the day and bartended at night. The tips were terrible, but the people-watching was amazing."

Dawn grinned. "I bet you have stories."

"I do," Emily said, her smile turning wistful. "Most of them end with someone getting drunk and crying in the bathroom, but it's a living."

The group settled into an easy rhythm, the initial novelty of Emily's nudity fading into the background. Every so often, a question would surface—about her old harem season, about what she missed most, about whether the transformations were as bad as people said—but Emily took each one in stride, her answers honest and unguarded.

It was Marissa who asked the next big question, her voice low enough that Andy knew she was in therapist mode. "What happened, after your season ended? Did you go home?"

Emily paused, hands tightening around her mug. "No, my season didn’t end. We were... in limbo, I guess. There was a problem with the Producers, or maybe just the system. We got shuffled between places. I was one of the lucky ones."

The table went quiet.

She shrugged, trying to make it sound less dramatic. "It could have been worse. But it's weird, you know? You spend all that time fighting for a wish, and then when it's over, nobody tells you if you won or lost. You just... exist."

Liesa reached over and squeezed her hand. "You're not alone anymore."

Emily smiled, real and full this time. "Thanks. That means a lot."

Andy looked around the table, realizing just how much had changed in a few short weeks. The women who, at first, had been competitors—rivals for attention, for survival—were now a unit, messy and dysfunctional, but a family all the same. Adding Emily didn't disrupt the balance; if anything, it made the whole thing stronger.

After breakfast, as the table dispersed, Dawn lingered to help Emily with her plate. They chatted in low voices, but Andy caught snippets: talk of favorite artists, whether the weather was ever different here, and, at one point, Emily whispering, "If you ever want to try hair extensions, I can show you how."

Dawn giggled, her ears wiggling in delight.

Chloe sidled up to Andy as he cleaned up. "You did good," she said. "She's nice."

He smiled, relief settling in his chest. "She is."

Chloe lowered her voice. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "I think so."

She squeezed his arm, then walked off, humming.

Emily found him a few minutes later. She looked more at ease, less like she was being hunted and more like she was actually part of something.

"Thanks for… everything," she said.

He shrugged. "You did all the work. They're just as nervous as you."

She laughed. "That's hard to believe."

He grinned. "It's true."

Emily lingered, eyes searching his. "Are you happy?"

He considered, then said, "Right now? Yeah."

She looked around, then leaned in, her voice low. "If you ever want to talk about Jake, or the family thing, let me know."

He nodded, surprised by how much it meant. "Thank you."

She smiled, then walked off, her hair swinging behind her in a golden-pink arc.

As she disappeared down the hall, Andy realized he'd been holding his breath since she arrived. Now, finally, he could exhale.

The library had always been Claire's kingdom. Even now, after two weeks, she seemed more at home among the stacks than anywhere else in the hotel. Andy found her at a carrel in the corner, the table covered in open books, notebooks, and a carefully segmented snack tray she must have assembled herself.

She didn't look up when he entered, but her ears swiveled—first toward the door, then back toward the map she was annotating. He took a few steps, waited, then cleared his throat. That did it. The ears snapped to full alert, tail flicking once behind her, and she turned her head to greet him.

Her notebook was open, pen at the ready. She let him sit across from her, then, after a pause, wrote:

How is she?

Andy blinked, caught off-guard by the directness. "Emily?" he asked, just to be sure.

Claire nodded.

He shrugged, feeling the fatigue settle in his bones now that he was away from the table. "She’s doing better than I expected. I’m glad Erin jumped to her defense. I think it’s the shared transformation."

Claire's tail curled around her own wrist, then drummed against the edge of the table, a sign of concentration. She wrote:

And you? I can feel the tired.

He smiled, grateful that she never sugarcoated it. "Yeah. I’m tired. But also… kind of hopeful? Emily reminds me of what it felt like to be new here. Like the world could still get better if you survived the next morning."

Claire's eyes flicked up at him, analyzing. She scribbled:

You care for her already. You always do this.

He started to object, but she held up her hand, then tapped her pen to her lips in a gesture of thought. She underlined her words, then added:

It’s not bad. But it hurts you.

He exhaled, leaning back. "I'm supposed to care. That’s the whole point."

Claire shook her head, then mimed drawing a fence on the edge of her notebook. She pushed it toward him, then mimed shoving something under the fence. She wrote:

You protect, but you hide from yourself.

He laughed, low and honest. "That obvious, huh?"

She nodded, then smiled—a real one, small and almost shy. She tapped her pen, then wrote:

She’ll be good for us, after Riley. She will help you, too.

He nodded, then looked around the library, letting the silence grow. There was something sacred in the way the light filtered through the stained-glass window above, painting stripes of color on Claire’s hands and arms.

He said, "You know, sometimes I think you’re the only one who actually understands what this is doing to us."

Claire shrugged, then wrote:

I read a lot.

He laughed again, the sound echoing against the stone. "You’re amazing," he said, and meant it.

Claire's face went pink, but she didn't look away. Instead, she closed her notebook, set her pen aside, and reached her hand across the table. He took it, feeling the warmth in her fingers, the little flutter of her pulse.

She squeezed his hand, then picked up the pen with her other hand and wrote, very small:

Talk to her. Tell her what you told me. She’ll understand.

Andy blinked, not sure what she meant.

She wrote:

About the burden. About not wanting to lose anyone.

He nodded. "I can try," he said.

Claire's tail flicked again, then curled around his wrist, soft and insistent. She wrote:

You’re still human, Andy. You don’t have to be perfect.

He let the words settle, then squeezed her hand back. "Neither do you," he said.

Claire smiled, a little more confident now. She looked at the books spread in front of her, then wrote:

I found something for you.

She pushed a slim volume across the table. The cover was worn, the title faded: The Ethics of Power. He picked it up, flipped to the page she’d bookmarked, and read a passage aloud.

"'The ruler’s dilemma is not how to win, but how to keep winning without losing themselves to the rules they set.'"

He looked up at her. "Is this a hint?"

She shrugged, the cat ears tilting in a way that meant Yes, but also, I want you to think about it yourself.

He set the book down, then stood and walked around the table. Claire looked up, eyes wide, as he bent to kiss her forehead.

"You are," he said, "the best partner in crime I could ask for."

After the compliment, Claire’s ears flattened with embarrassment and she hunched her shoulders over the table, as if trying to hide inside the stack of books. Her tail, meanwhile, looped contentedly around Andy’s forearm—she was embarrassed, yes, but she was also happy he’d said it.

A minute passed like that, Claire writing notes in silence, Andy leafing through The Ethics of Power, not really reading but feeling the strange, gentle sense of being watched over. The library had always been their neutral ground—no sex, no politics, just the shared air of two people who could be themselves without expectation.

Claire broke the silence by gently tapping the back of his hand with her pen. She wrote:

You seem better today. Still tired, but not the old kind.

He read the words, then looked up. “What’s the new kind?”

She hesitated, then scribbled:

Not haunted. More… cautious. You’re hopeful about Emily, but you’re also scared she’ll break. Or you will.

Her tail flexed, a band around his wrist.

Andy thought about lying, but then remembered who he was talking to. “I am hopeful. I just want her to finish what she started. Maybe this time, she can.”

Claire nodded, then added, in tight script:

She’ll fit. She wants to. That’s what matters.

She tapped her pen, then wrote:

But you can’t save everyone.

Andy smiled, reading the concern between the lines. “I know. But I can try, right?”

Claire’s tail squeezed him once, then let go. She made a quick sketch on her notebook—three little stick figures, all with halos above their heads. Underneath, she wrote:

Most other Masters and Mistresses don’t care this much. I’ve watched other seasons, you know.

He grinned. “Is that a compliment?”

She shrugged, but her amusement, as he sensed it through the bond, made it clear it was.

Then, without warning, she wrote:

Do you ever wish you had someone to talk to? Like a support group?

Andy blinked, caught off-guard by the question. “I have you.”

Claire rolled her eyes, then wrote:

That’s not what I mean. I mean, someone who knows what it’s like. Another Master. Or a Mistress.

He laughed. “The only other Master I ever met… or, well, Mistress… was Harper, a blue sea elf with a sword who claimed to have changed species three times in two weeks. She’s got a harem, but most of them had undergone more transformations in two days than you have in three weeks, and one of the harem brainwashed another and tried to kill Harper. That’s… not quite our situation, thankfully. Also… I don’t know how Harper is doing now.”

Claire’s pen hovered over the page for a long moment before she wrote:

Did you get letters from a woman called Shar? Shar is the Host in the Haunted Castle season. She has a Mistress, too—Laura. Not your Laura, a different one. They’re… good together. Their harem works. I watch them sometimes on the screens. It’s not perfect, but it’s honest.

She paused, then looked at him, her gaze direct:

Maybe Arabella can arrange a meeting? You don’t have to carry it alone. I can only help so much.

Andy stared at her, not sure what to say. “You want me to go to a support group for polygamous trauma victims?”

She wrote, in all caps:

YES.

He started laughing and couldn’t stop. It was so honest, so perfectly her, that he felt the exhaustion of the last few weeks just slide away, at least for a moment.

Claire’s cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were bright and intent. She watched him carefully, measuring how much he meant it.

“You’re amazing,” he said, repeating himself.

She blushed, writing, in tiny letters:

I’m a mess. Sometimes my mess works out.

He reached across the table, took her hand, and squeezed. “You’re not a mess,” he said. “You’re the only reason any of this works.”

She squeezed back, her tail flicking in amusement.

He let her go and stood, pushing his chair in. “Think I’ll go for a walk,” he said. “Get some air before the next wave hits.”

Claire nodded, and before he left, she wrote one more note:

If you want, I’ll be your partner at the support group.

He smiled all the way to the door, and for the first time since the week began, he believed things might turn out okay.

Riley had always preferred places that felt unclaimed—abandoned church pews, the last row of a bus, the alley behind the youth center at midnight. The Bamboo Grove wasn’t exactly that, but it was as close as she’d found on this side of the glass. There, under the scaffolding of pale stalks, she could almost believe she’d found a loophole in the world’s endless pageant.

She sat cross-legged on a stone bench, one ankle poking out from beneath the cuff of her jeans, hands resting in her lap. Her eyes were red and glassy, not so much from crying as from not sleeping, and her hair was a mess of frizz, its firebank color dulled by morning shade. Every so often, she’d pluck at the loose threads on her jacket or brush the dust from the stone, but mostly she just sat, breathing in the cool green air, and waited for whatever came next.

It was Marissa who found her. Marissa with her immaculate bun, her fitted white blouse displaying a nearly obscene amount of cleavage, and her notebook tucked under one arm as if she’d just stepped from a boardroom instead of a garden path. She slowed at the edge of the grove, caught Riley’s eye, and then—taking her cue from every wary animal documentary ever filmed—she sat on the far end of the bench, leaving a solid two meters of space between them.

They sat like that for a while, neither speaking. Marissa watched the wind play with the bamboo leaves. Riley watched the ground. After a few minutes, Marissa opened her notebook but didn’t write anything. The silence was oddly companionable, as if they’d both agreed that any conversation would have to be earned, not offered.

Eventually, Marissa broke it. “I like it here,” she said, not quite looking at Riley. “It reminds me of a greenhouse my mom used to take me to. When I was little.”

Riley shrugged, a twitch of shoulder. “Never had a greenhouse,” she said. “Never had a mom who’d go near one. Ours was more a single-issue household.”

Marissa smiled faintly. “Church, or sports?”

“Catholic.” Riley let the word hang, then smirked. “We didn’t do plants. My mother was afraid of dirt. I used to get grounded for coming home with grass stains.” She glanced at Marissa, saw the faint smile, and felt a flicker of surprise that she didn’t hate it. “Is this the part where you ask how that made me feel?”

Marissa looked at her, blue eyes clear and direct. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she said. “But you looked like you could use the company.”

Riley studied her for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Fair enough.” She picked at the hem of her sleeve. “You always do this? Wander the gardens until you find the lone wolf?”

Marissa laughed, low and gentle. “Sometimes. Sometimes the lone wolf finds me.” She turned slightly on the bench, closing the gap by a few centimeters. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Riley waited, arms crossed, the question already half-drawn in her mind. “Shoot.”

“It’s about Laura,” Marissa said, careful with the name. “The other night, you said things to Andy that left him… raw. I’m not here to judge, but—” she trailed off, searching for the thread— “it struck me that you and he are carrying mirror images of the same weight.”

Riley inhaled, the sound sharp as a paper cut. “What do you want to know?”

“Why you’re so angry,” Marissa said, simply.

Riley let her head fall back, staring up at the impossible geometry of the bamboo, the blue bite of sky above. “Because it’s easier than admitting I’m guilty, too.” She laughed, and it was a short, ugly sound. “It’s easier than saying I fucked up. That I made her go to the bridge.” She swallowed, the movement visible in her throat. “I told her to do it. To face Andy. To ask him why.”

Marissa listened. No notepad, no pen, just two hands folded in her lap. “Did you know what would happen?”

Riley shook her head, the motion jerky. “I thought it would be a fight. Words. Maybe some screaming, some tears, but then she’d come back to me and we’d eat microwave mac and cheese and forget the rest. That’s what I thought.” Her voice cracked, barely audible. “I didn’t think she’d jump in.”

The silence was heavier now, pressing in from all sides. A butterfly landed on the toe of Riley’s sneaker, and she didn’t move.

Marissa let the pause stretch, then said, “I don’t think anyone blames you for what happened.”

Riley shot her a look, sharp and wild. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she spat. “Nobody blames me. Not Andy, not my parents. They just look at me like I’m a tragedy victim, too. But I’m not. I’m the one who put her there.”

Marissa’s voice was softer, but unyielding. “Is it easier to carry that than to admit it wasn’t your fault?”

Riley snorted, but the sound was wetter now. “It’s not about easy. It’s about honest.”

Marissa nodded. “Okay. Let’s be honest. You pushed her to confront Andy because you were scared for her. She was hurting, and you wanted to help.”

Riley didn’t answer, but her jaw clenched, and her hands curled into fists.

Marissa leaned forward, elbows on her knees, making herself a little smaller, a little less threatening. “It’s what people do when they’re afraid. They push. Sometimes too hard.”

“I was jealous,” Riley whispered, voice shredded. “That’s the part I never told anyone. I wanted to be Laura’s best friend. I wanted to be the one she chose, not the boy across the street. And when I saw her breaking, I thought, if I can just get rid of him, maybe she’ll come back.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to block out the memory. “Instead, she died.”

Marissa waited, let the confession settle. Then, gently: “It wasn’t your fault.”

Riley laughed harshly, more of a cough. “Yeah, that’s the line. Arabella says it. Hell, John says it in dreams sometimes.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, eyes flinty. “But you know what? The one left behind always gets to spin the story however they like.”

They sat in silence under the bamboo, Riley’s glare pinned Marissa in place.

Finally Marissa broke it. “If you could talk to Andy—what would you say?”

Riley’s jaw clenched. She stared at the ground. “Say? I’d say… leave me alone. That I’m done listening to him feel sorry for himself.” She inhaled sharply.

Marissa’s voice was gentle. “You—” she searched Riley’s face— “you lost more than just Laura.”

Riley’s laugh was short and bitter. “You don’t know what I lost.” She flicked a loose thread on her jeans. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Marissa risked a step closer. “You both grieved for the person you used to be.”

“Old me died some time ago,” Riley said, voice low. “There’s nothing left.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Marissa pressed. “Maybe that means there’s something worth saving. Maybe you owe it to her—and to yourself—to stop treating your life like a sentence.”

Riley’s fingers dug into her palms. “You really think I can do that?”

Marissa met her eyes squarely. “The only way out is through. Talk to him. Not for Andy—” she paused, “—for you.”

Riley scoffed, shoulders rising. “Typical therapist crap: ‘Talk it out.’ It never fixes anything.”

Marissa’s smile was patient. “You would be surprised.”

They sank back into silence, the bamboo whispering overhead. After a long moment, Riley muttered, “What if I can’t? What if I just… can’t?”

Marissa shrugged. “Then you try again. Write it down. Scream into a pillow. But don’t stop trying.”

Riley’s hands unclenched for the first time all morning. She tapped her knee. “I’ll… think about it.”

Marissa snapped her notebook shut. “I’m here if you need backup.”

Riley looked up, eyes sharper now. “Yeah. Thanks… I guess.”

Marissa nodded. “We’re all surviving, one confession at a time.”

Riley’s lips twitched as if to argue, then she let out a steady breath. They stood and walked back to the hotel in silence.

The Banquet Hall in late afternoon was brighter than Andy remembered it, all the glass and gold picking up the descending sun and flinging it across every polished surface. Most of the women had gathered at the big table, which someone (probably Dawn) had set with a spread of cut fruit, pastries, and at least four varieties of sparkling water. If there was a single molecule of real tension left after the morning, Andy couldn’t see it.

Sam arrived last. She made her entrance with a confidence that belonged on a basketball court, not a buffet line, striding straight to the head of the table and clapping her hands once for attention.

“All right, listen up!” she called, and every head turned in unison. Even Riley, who looked like she’d just lost a bar fight with a sentiment, was alert and focused.

Sam grinned at the group, her gaze sweeping over each woman in turn. “Tomorrow afternoon, I’m running another session. Pathfinder. All hands on deck. That includes you, Emily.” She nodded at Emily, who gave a quick, eager smile, her cheeks going pink as every eye landed on her.

Sam continued, “The theme is classic dungeon crawl. Emily, we’ll build your sheet tomorrow.” She shot Andy a look, as if daring him to protest. “I want full buy-in from the Master, too.”

Andy raised his hands. “I’m in. Just tell me where to show up.”

Sam’s smile softened. “Just show up, that’s all we ever need from you.”

Emily, who’d spent the entire exchange alternating between fascination and terror, piped up: “I haven’t played since college. But I’ll try not to kill us all.”

Chloe beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

Sam nodded. “Set your calendars. Tomorrow, we’ll kick things off in the rec room this time.” She turned to the rest of the group. “Spread the word, please. Last time some people pretended they didn’t get the memo.” Her eyes lingered on Riley, who just shrugged, unrepentant.

As quickly as she’d arrived, Sam grabbed a pastry, downed it in one bite, and made her exit. The table hummed in her wake, the energy lifted by a notch.

The conversation turned, as it always did, to the new arrival.

“So, Emily,” Marissa asked, her voice as measured as a metronome, “do you have a preferred class?”

Emily blinked. “Um. Not really. I always played whatever the group needed. Usually support.”

Dawn smiled, her bunny ears tilting forward. “Healer? Or buffer?”

Emily grinned. “Either. But I’m not much of a fighter. Too squishy.”

Erin, who’d been quiet since the morning, spoke up. “If you need a bodyguard, I volunteer.”

Norah leered. “Me too, but I want hazard pay.”

Everyone laughed, including Emily, whose hair glimmered in the late sun as she shook her head. “You’re all so much… friendlier than I expected,” she said, her voice low but warm.

Chloe tilted her head. “Why’s that?”

Emily shrugged, her hair rippling like a silk curtain. “I don’t know. When I first got here, I thought it would be all competition, or drama. But it’s not.”

Liesa nodded, “It is, sometimes. But not as much as you’d think. Mostly it’s just a lot of people, thrown together, trying not to drown.”

Emily considered this, then said: “I like that. That’s how it was in my season, before things went weird.”

There was a pause. Then, almost in unison, the women leaned forward, hungry for gossip.

The conversation turned to lighter things. Norah told a story about nearly starting a kitchen fire with a fondue set; Chloe shared her top three power ballads for heartbreak, all sung badly; Emi tried to set up an arm wrestling contest but was outvoted by everyone.

Emily watched it all with a sense of wonder, like she was witnessing the life cycle of an exotic, beautiful animal.

At one point, when Dawn got up to refill the drinks, she lingered by Emily’s chair and whispered, “I really like you, you know.”

Emily smiled, her hair a golden curtain between them. “Thank you,” she whispered back.

She noticed, though, the way everyone’s eyes would sometimes drift to her body. Not in a cruel or leering way, but with a kind of open curiosity. She was used to it, but the sheer normality of it here—the lack of shock, the gentle teasing, the way it was just one more thing that made her unique—made her feel oddly powerful.

At the same time, she felt acutely the way the other women dressed, their clothes carefully chosen to highlight or hide as needed. Her own nudity, no matter how effectively camouflaged by hair, made every gesture feel both more **** and more honest.

She did not mention her other transformations, or its implications, not yet. She wanted these women to see her as a person before they saw her as a story.

But as the sun lowered and the laughter rose, Emily started to believe that maybe, this was a place she could belong.

When the conversation finally wound down and people drifted away, she sat for a moment in the glow, hands folded in her lap, and looked out at the volcano as the last streaks of light faded from its peak.

She felt the urge to cry, but didn’t. Instead, she watched the door, waiting to see who would walk through it next.