Visitations, Epilogue

The walk back to Room 5 was a silent one for Claire and Marissa, though for two entirely different reasons. Marissa kept her arms folded over her chest. The coolness of the corridor’s marble floor seeped up through her feet, a bracing but somehow grounding sensation. She didn’t speak, partly out of respect for the quiet, but mostly because she was still processing everything: her own transformation, the way Andy looked at her now, the unexpected truth she’d found herself admitting in the Suite. And also, frankly, the sensation in her chest every time her blouse so much as grazed her nipples. It was distracting to the point of arousal, but she was determined not to show it.

Claire walked beside her, notebook hugged tight to her ribs, eyes darting from the intricate inlays in the hallway to the ever-present crash of the waves just beyond the glass. Her steps were short, nearly shuffling, but her face was composed, a pale mask of determination over the undercurrents of curiosity and nerves. Marissa suspected that, even now, Claire was already cataloguing and cross-referencing every detail, every new pattern.

When they reached Room 5, Marissa paused before the door. It opened soundlessly at her touch. The inside was flooded with warm, honey-colored light, as if the room itself had been lit from within. She stepped over the threshold, and the hush of the sea enveloped her.

The room was beautiful, in the way that expensive things designed to look “natural” often are. The king-sized bed was covered by a mountain of white and sand-colored pillows. Pale driftwood formed the headboard and side tables. The windows were enormous and unopenable, looking out on a sweep of moonlit ocean and the black silhouette of palms. One corner held a hammock chair, above a patterned sisal rug. The minibar was stocked with all manner of tropical fruit, glass bottles of sparkling water, and, for some reason, a box of hand-rolled cigars made from banana leaves. Marissa shook her head, amused despite herself.

Claire followed her in, then stopped just inside the door, as if waiting for permission. Marissa turned, softening her expression. “Go ahead. Make yourself at home,” she said, then winced as her blouse brushed against her skin.

Claire offered a small, bashful smile, then went directly to the window. She pressed her fingers to the glass, peering out into the darkness as if she could somehow see the future written in the night.

Marissa examined the room’s other features: a writing desk (with real paper and fountain pens), and—she checked with growing amusement—twin wardrobes containing several changes of clothing for each of them. The labels on the hangers were inscribed with their names, the handwriting so precise it could only have been machine-generated. She pulled one set out and examined it. It was exactly identical to what she wore at home—tailored slacks, blouses in demure colors—but there were also a few “island” options: linen sundresses, lightweight sweaters, even a pair of espadrilles that looked suspiciously like her own, broken-in pair. She couldn’t decide whether to be comforted or creeped out.

Behind her, Claire let out a soft sigh of appreciation. Marissa turned, saw her running a fingertip along the spine of a book set on the nightstand. “Good selection?” Marissa asked.

Claire turned, held up the book—The Oxford Companion to Mythological Tales—then nodded with a straight face, although her eyes sparkled with happiness. She set it down, then flopped onto her side of the bed, legs crossed, notebook ready in her lap.

Marissa watched her for a moment, then lowered herself gingerly onto the other side of the bed. She wasn’t sure how to begin. The silence between them was charged, not awkward but anticipatory, like a curtain waiting to rise.

Finally, Claire opened her notebook and wrote:

It’s nice here.

Then, with a flourish, she added:

(Assuming we ignore the **** servitude, magical compulsions, physical transformations, and omnipresent surveillance.)

She turned the page around and slid it across the bed, eyes studying Marissa’s reaction.

Marissa read it, then laughed—a short, surprised sound. “You are good at putting things in perspective,” she said. The movement jostled her chest, and she winced again, involuntary. She tried to disguise it by crossing her legs and folding her arms.

Claire watched her carefully, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest concern. She scribbled another note:

Are you in pain?

Marissa hesitated, then replied, “Not pain. Just… constant stimulation. It’s distracting. Arabella’s idea of a joke, I suspect.” She rolled her eyes.

Claire snorted, then wrote:

I think Andy would apologize on her behalf, if he could. He always hated practical jokes.

The mention of Andy sharpened the air between them. Marissa looked at her carefully. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said, “why did you volunteer for this? The voice thing, I mean. You seemed so calm, even when Arabella explained what it meant.”

Claire considered, then wrote, slowly:

Words were never my strong suit. They made things worse, half the time. Now I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing.

She paused, pen hovering, then added:

Besides, I always wondered what it would feel like to truly understand someone. Now I get to try.

Marissa read the note, then looked up. “Do you? Understand him?”

Claire paused for a moment, smiled, then nodded. She made a looping motion with her hand.

“Tell me something about Andy I don’t know,” Marissa said, surprising herself with her own curiosity.

Claire’s pen scratched at the paper for several seconds. When she turned the notebook, the answer was:

He is always scared he’ll be alone. Even when surrounded by people, earlier, he was feeling we’d all eventually leave.

She looked up at Marissa, face open, then scribbled:

But you probably already knew that.

Marissa shook her head. “I suspected. But there’s a difference between suspicion and knowledge. Especially with Andy.” She glanced out the window, watched the moonlight shifting on the surface of the water. “Do you miss your voice?”

Claire made a face, then wrote:

Not as much as I thought. Maybe later. Right now, it’s sort of liberating.

She hesitated, then drew a heart and wrote, underneath:

It’s like being wrapped in a warm blanket of someone else’s feelings. I don’t feel alone anymore.

The admission seemed to cost her something; her cheeks flushed, and she looked away.

Marissa let the silence stretch. She considered her own history—years of training, years of listening but never really speaking, always deflecting her own emotions. She wondered what it would be like to have someone so deeply in sync with your feelings, you could never hide from them.

“Were you… lonely? Before?” she asked, her voice soft.

Claire nodded, then wrote:

Most of my life. With everyone. When you do not understand people… people do not understand you.

She tapped the pen against her lips, then added, in smaller script:

Are you always so professional?

Marissa’s shoulders slumped, the question landing heavier than expected. “It’s a defense mechanism. I think it started as a way to survive med school, and then it became… everything. Being a therapist became my identity. Even with my sister. Even with myself.” She shrugged, then tried to laugh. “It’s easier to analyze than to feel.”

Claire gave her a look—gentle, a little sad—then reached across the beds and squeezed Marissa’s hand, brief and firm. Marissa’s breath caught, not from the touch, but from the sincerity in it. It had been a long time since anyone had tried to comfort her, and even longer since she’d let them.

She squeezed back, then let go. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean it.”

Claire smiled, then yawned. She covered her mouth with one hand, then scribbled a last note:

If you ever need to talk, or just be with someone who won’t judge, I’m here. You can even borrow my book.

She flipped the notebook closed, put her glasses on her nightstand, then curled up on her side atop the covers, the light still shining off her pale hair. Within seconds, her breathing slowed, the day’s exhaustion catching up.

Marissa watched her sleep, then stood and walked to the window. She pressed her palm to the glass, stared out at the sea. She thought about everything Arabella had said, everything she’d admitted to Andy, everything she hadn’t admitted to herself.

She reached up, unbuttoned the top of her blouse, and let it hang loose over her shoulders. The air against her skin was sharp, electric. She shivered, but not from cold. For the first time since arriving, she felt the edge of possibility—the idea that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to be the therapist here. Maybe she could just be Marissa.

She turned back, saw Claire breathing softly, and felt a wave of gratitude that surprised her with its intensity.

She turned off the lamp, letting the darkness take the room. She lay down, closed her eyes, and listened to the sound of the ocean. It was a lullaby, and a warning, and a promise that in the morning, everything would be just a little bit different.

The first thing Dawn noticed about Room 69 was the smell. Not the faint, institutional bleach she expected from a high-end hotel, but a layered cocktail of salt air, coconut, and something floral she couldn’t quite pin down. She inhaled. For a second, it almost felt like home.

Liesa let the door close behind them. She had a wild, unbrushed look, her strawberry-blonde hair half pulled into a topknot, the rest loose. She set her hands on her hips and surveyed the room with a deliberate, even predatory calm, like a big cat assessing her new enclosure.

“This is very… Instagram,” Liesa said, finally.

Dawn grinned. “I’d give it five stars on Yelp. Maybe four and a half, if I’m honest.”

She went straight for the windows, which revealed a lip of balcony, and, beyond, a sudden nothingness—a vertical drop down the cliff, scrubby palms clinging for dear life, and the reef’s indigo mosaic glittering hundreds of feet below.

Liesa gave a low whistle, then turned her attention to the minibar, opening it with a single elegant flick. She grinned when she saw the tiny bottles lined up with obsessive precision. “You drink?” she asked.

Dawn laughed. “I prefer juice boxes. But I’ll try anything once.”

They were both stalling, each waiting for the other to be the first to drop the pretense of small talk. In the end, it was Dawn who folded, padding over to the bed—crisp linens, oversized—then sitting cross-legged atop her side. She looked at her hands, palms up, fingers fidgeting with her hair tie.

“Can I tell you something?” Dawn said, voice wobbling more than she liked.

Liesa was halfway into the wardrobe by then, examining the hanging dresses with a mix of skepticism and nostalgia. “You may,” she replied, not turning around.

Dawn took a breath. “When I went up to the Suite tonight… I thought maybe, you know, I’d just deliver the tea, do the concierge thing, and come right back. But it was weird.” She tried to find the right word. “The compulsion. The serving thing. It’s like my insides fill up with electricity and I want to do anything to make him happy, even if it’s embarrassing. Or crazy.” She shook her head. “But then I actually liked it. It was scary but I didn’t want it to stop.”

Liesa let her hands fall away from the dresses, and, for the first time, gave Dawn her full attention. “Did he make you do anything?” she asked, gentle.

Dawn shook her head. “No, he stopped me. I tried to… offer myself, I guess? I thought I wanted to. But he said no, and just talked to me. It was…” She paused, searching for the right feeling. “Safe. And I liked him more for it. Maybe a lot more.”

Liesa considered this, then sat on her side of the bed, tucking one foot under her leg. “He’s good at reading a room,” she said. “Even when he was younger. Maybe especially then. It’s what makes him dangerous to himself, sometimes.”

“Dangerous?” Dawn echoed, surprised.

Liesa smiled, but it was a sad, private thing. “He knows what people want, and he wants to give it to them. Even when he thinks he’s not worth it.” She gestured, flicking invisible crumbs from the air.

Dawn nodded, twisting her hair tighter around her finger. “Did you two date? Before? Or was it just a fling?”

For the first time, Liesa’s confidence wavered. She looked at her hands. “We dated. But I left him,” she said, voice quieter. “Very suddenly, no explanation. It wasn’t because of him, but he didn’t know that. I just… went away. I had to.” She pressed her palm to her forehead, then let it drop.

Dawn bit her lip, wondering if she should ask why, but she saw Liesa’s face and decided not to press the issue directly. “Do you think you’ll tell him why? Now that you’re both stuck here?”

Liesa shrugged, then **** a smile. “Ik weet het niet*. After what I do, I would not blame him if he didn’t care anymore.”

“I don’t know him that well,” Dawn said, “but he seems like a good person.” She paused, then added, “You should try.”

Liesa huffed, a warm, nearly-laughing sound. “You are very young,” she said, but not unkindly.

Dawn bristled. “I’m twenty-six.”

Liesa cocked an eyebrow. “And I’m what, ancient?” She softened, then leaned back on her elbows, gazing up at the ceiling. “You’re right, though. He is a good person. The best, maybe.”

A silence settled, less awkward this time, more like a blanket thrown over a sleeping dog: heavy, but not unwelcome.

Liesa got up, opened a drawer, and rummaged through the folded T-shirts and underwear. Dawn watched her, then realized her own bag was still sitting by the door. She hopped off the bed and went to unpack it, if only to give her hands something to do.

The wardrobe was a trip. On the left were four crisp, collared shirts in white, pale blue, and marigold, each more “Dawn” than the last. A pair of soft jeans, two skirts (one floral, one basic black), and three cardigans in progressively lighter knits. Every item was identical to what she had at home. There was even a windbreaker that looked like the one she’d lost last winter on the L. On the right, a strange mix of bohemian sundresses and avant-garde tops, the latter all clearly Liesa’s: wild patterns, sharp cuts, pockets everywhere, and a single pair of acid-washed overalls.

On the shelf above, Dawn spotted her running shoes—the actual ones from home, dirt still crusted around the soles. She smiled.

“Did they raid our closets?” she asked, amused.

Liesa examined one of the dresses, held it up to her chest, then smirked. “If so, they picked my favorites.”

Dawn set her shoes on the floor and started arranging her shirts on the hangers. She could feel Liesa’s eyes on her, not hostile, just curious.

“What about you?” Liesa asked, suddenly. “What’s your story?”

Dawn considered. “I’ve been working since I was fifteen. First at my dad’s coffee shop, then at a hardware store, then the Harrington. I like helping people. I’m good at it.” She hesitated, then added, “That’s why the compulsion thing doesn’t feel so bad. It’s what I’m used to.”

Liesa nodded. “But you like Andy?”

Dawn felt her face flush. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s too soon. But… it’s different.”

“Different is good,” Liesa said.

They both unpacked in silence for a bit, then Liesa suddenly gasped. She pulled out a small, battered bamboo case from the back of her wardrobe and opened it with trembling hands.

“My tea set!” she said, half-laughing, half in shock. “How did they—” She stopped, then shrugged. “It’s the actual one. Even the crack on the handle.” She looked at Dawn, smile wide and real. “You want tea? Or do you only drink juice boxes?”

Dawn grinned, then opened her own nightstand drawer. She let out a squeal and pulled from inside a small, nearly threadbare stuffed bunny, the ears drooping, the fur patchy from a thousand washes.

“Mr. Sniffles!” she cried, hugging the bunny to her chest. She plopped down on the bed, laughing in genuine delight, bunny clutched under her chin.

Liesa watched her, the last of her sadness dissolving in the face of Dawn’s pure, unfiltered joy. She laughed, for real this time, and Dawn joined in, and together their laughter filled the room, echoing up into the shadowed ceiling.

They didn’t talk again for a while. There was no need. The night outside deepened, and the weirdness of their situation seemed, for once, like something that could be lived with. At least for tonight.

The garden outside Room 80 was unreal, the way only things in a place like this could be. The glass doors framed a riotous display: bougainvillea spilling down in loops of neon magenta, hibiscus blooms the size of cereal bowls, and hummingbirds that seemed not to fly but to hover on some invisible axis of time and space. At night, the lanterns lining the path would glow orange and gold, their paper skins fluttering in the manufactured wind.

Inside, Norah lay diagonally across her bed, staring at the ceiling with a look of pure, cultivated contempt. She hadn’t bothered to explore the room. Instead, she’d kicked off her shoes and was using one heel to scratch at the edge of the mattress, as if testing its authenticity. Her new, absurdly proportioned chest rose and fell with each sigh, the sheer weight of it somehow not enough to keep her from radiating disapproval in every direction.

In the center of the room, Emi Kim stood before the tall, mirrored armoire, all six arms splayed out like the world’s gentlest arachnid. She moved them slowly, in coordinated sets: two on her hips, two tenting her hair into a soft black cloud, two fluttering at her sides as if conducting a silent orchestra. Emi’s dress, which was not designed for six arms, had already torn at the sleeves, exposing more pale shoulder and collarbone than she was comfortable with.

“You know,” Norah said, not looking away from the ceiling, “you’re never going to ‘get used to it.’ That’s not how curses work.”

Emi stopped, her lower set of hands clasping in front of her belly. She looked at Norah’s reflection in the glass, then down at her own arms, as if only just noticing how many there were. “I think it’s getting better,” she said, voice a gentle drone. “They’re less… grabby now.”

“Sure,” Norah said. “But you still look like a Marvel reject. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m going to spend the rest of my life as some guy’s fuckdoll. So don’t tell me about ‘better.’”

Emi rotated, moving all six arms at once, a slow-motion pirouette that ended with her facing Norah directly. “You have a lot of anger,” she said, voice as light and airy as her posture. “Does it help?”

Norah actually laughed. “You’re adorable, you know that? Like a therapy animal with a degree in passive aggression.” She propped herself up on one elbow, letting her hair spill across her face. “So, what’s your plan? Just stand there and… what, meditate your way out of having a million hands?”

“I thought I would practice control,” Emi said. “If I focus, I think they’ll listen. Maybe even do what I want.” She demonstrated by folding all six hands into a single, complex origami pose, fingertips touching in a lotus shape. A few beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, but her face was lit with a child’s pride. “See?”

“Congratulations,” Norah deadpanned. “Next, you’ll be juggling.”

Emi didn’t argue. She just smiled, then went to the wardrobe. She slid the door open and beamed at the contents: eight dresses, two pairs of jeans, and three blouses, each with the sleeves already adjusted for triple the standard arms. “Oh!” she cried. “They fixed them. I was worried I’d have to do it myself.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “That’s the spirit,” she said, sarcastic. “Just lean in. Maybe you can join the circus when we get out of here.”

Emi ignored the sarcasm, running her fingertips over the fabric of a dress. “I never joined a circus,” she mused dreamily. “But I did have a summer job at the aquarium. The jellyfish were my favorite.”

Norah blinked, not sure how to respond to that. “Did you ever sting anyone?”

Emi shook her head. “No. But I did rescue a turtle once.” She smiled, then added, “I named him Horace. He never left his tank, but sometimes I’d sneak him extra lettuce.”

Norah considered this, then said, “You know, Kim, you’re not at all what I expected.”

Emi tilted her head, all six hands dropping to her sides. “What did you expect?”

Norah let out a breath. “I don’t know. A sob story? A breakdown? Some kind of self-actualizing TED Talk?” She shifted on the bed, wincing as her own body—cartoonish, hyper-sexualized, not her—reasserted itself. “Instead you’re just… a girl.”

Emi nodded, then sat gently at the edge of her own bed, smoothing her dress over her knees. She took a deep breath, then looked at Norah, her eyes luminous. “You can be a girl, too, you know.”

Norah stared at the ceiling for a while, then finally said, “That’s the problem. I don’t want to.” She swallowed. “I had a plan, you know? I was going to run my own company. Not end up in a freakshow, half-naked, boobs the size of volleyballs and the only guy I ever hated getting a free show.”

Emi was silent for a while, letting the words hang in the fragrant, hummingbird-filled air. Then she asked, “Did you like Andy? Before this?”

Norah scoffed. “Cooper was a mentor. Once. He made me cry in front of my whole team. Told me my data analysis was trash. I hated him for it, but I also—” She trailed off, unwilling to finish.

Emi watched her, patient as a stone. “You should try walking in his shoes,” she said, softly. “He’s as lost as we are. Maybe more.”

Norah glared at her. “Are you his defense attorney, or just angling to get your own night with him?”

Emi blushed, all six hands fidgeting at once. “No. I just… I know him. Ah, knew him. I think he needs a friend.”

Norah scoffed, but the words landed somewhere, because she didn’t fire back right away. Instead, she rolled onto her side, her hair a dark shield, eyes hidden.

Emi stood and went back to the wardrobe, pulling out one of the modified dresses. She held it up, showing off the triple sleeves. “This is my favorite color,” she said, just above a whisper. “Lavender.”

Norah grunted, “It looks good on you.”

Emi’s cheeks pinked. “Thank you.”

They both stood there for a while, the air humming with cicadas and the distant, synthetic song of the ocean. Then Norah broke the quiet. “If you touch me in your sleep, I will **** you,” she said, but there was no heat in it.

Emi nodded, then looked at her hands, mortified. “I’ll try not to.”

Norah turned away to hide her smile, and Emi busied herself arranging her new wardrobe, each arm working in careful concert. By the time she finished, the sun had slipped below the horizon, and the lanterns outside began to glow, flickering with a warm, impossible light.

In that light, the strangeness of their bodies seemed less menacing. Maybe even beautiful, if you squinted right. They didn’t speak again for the rest of the evening, but the silence was softer now, the edge dulled. Emi lay on her back, arms tucked in close, dreaming of jellyfish and turtles and how it felt to be exactly herself.

Norah, for her part, stared at the ceiling, then—when she was sure Emi had drifted off—turned to watch the lanterns bobbing beyond the window.

Room 143 looked like the fantasy honeymoon suite of a Bond villain: pale bamboo walls, wood floors polished to a blinding shine, a king bed surrounded by sheer drapes, and, in the middle of the far wall, a glass panel set in the floor revealing the lagoon below. Tonight, the moon’s reflection rippled up onto the ceiling, making the whole room glow like a planetarium for people who’d never believed in stars.

Sam claimed the left side of the bed the moment they arrived, collapsing on top of the comforter with a satisfied groan. She grabbed one of the room’s signature drinks from the nightstand: a lurid blue cocktail topped with a chunk of pineapple and an umbrella so large it looked designed to ward off a monsoon.

Erin stood by the balcony, one foot braced against the glass door, both arms crossed tight over her chest. She stared at the horizon, jaw set, the picture of a woman trying to hold herself together by sheer will.

For a long time, neither spoke. Sam made a show of savoring her drink, slurping with exaggerated gusto. When the silence finally broke, it was with Erin’s voice—low, brittle, aimed out at the night.

“I’m surprised you’re still Andy’s friend, after UIC,” she said, not turning. “I would’ve thought he’d chase you away too.”

Sam grinned. “Ah, but I’m persistent. It’s one of my more annoying qualities.” She set the cocktail down and looked at Erin’s reflection in the glass. “Plus, the guy’s not so bad once you stop taking everything personally. Or so I hear.”

Erin’s lips twitched. “Sure, but he pushes people away. He always did. I thought you’d have caught on by now.” She turned, finally, and let her arms fall to her sides.

Sam shrugged, reached for the second cocktail on the tray, and offered it up. “I did,” Sam said. “But that’s the thing about Andy. He doesn’t push me away, not really. He just… leaves space for me to be there if I want. Never tries to hold on too tight.” She glanced at Erin, then added, “You could try it. Being a friend, I mean.” She gestured with the drink. “Truce? These taste better when shared.”

Erin eyed the glass, then took it and sat on the opposite edge of the bed. She didn’t sip. She just held it, watching the ice melt, droplets pooling at the rim. Snorting, she replied after a few moments, “That’s not how I work.”

Sam waited. She had infinite patience for this game. “Yeah. I remember. You never let anyone in unless you had to.”

Erin flinched. “Did he tell you that? Or did you just decide to psychoanalyze me for fun?”

Sam smiled. “Neither. It’s just how it felt. You kept him at a distance, even when you were together. Like you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Erin’s jaw flexed, her eyes going cold again. “I’m surprised you’re defending him. I figured you’d have a million reasons to hate his guts.”

Sam looked at her, hard. “Why? Because I’m a lesbian, and he's a guy?”

Erin hesitated. “Because he never really tried to keep you, or anyone else, I imagine. He just… drifts. Like it doesn’t matter who he’s with, he’ll always find a way to make it not last.”

Sam took another sip. “Maybe that’s true. But at least he doesn’t pretend otherwise.” She set her glass down. “Look, Erin. I know you’re mad at him, and at the world, and probably at me for not being a better target. But can we just agree that tonight sucks and we’re both allowed to be miserable about it?”

Erin blinked, then barked a laugh. “That’s the first honest thing anyone’s said since I got here.” She shuddered, then put her cocktail glass on the nightstand, still untouched, and sat on the edge of the bed opposite Sam. They sat like that for a while, the only sound the echo of waves lapping at the stilts beneath the room. Erin looked at the glass panel under her feet, watching the fish flicker in the light.

Sam watched her. “Can I ask what happened?” She kept her tone casual, like she was asking about a movie plot rather than the core trauma of Erin’s twenties.

“He didn’t tell you?” Erin asked, skeptical.

“He said you left. Wouldn’t say why.”

Erin looked at her glass, then at Sam. “I kept trying to make him open up. To talk about his past, his feelings, all the stuff he never let out. He wouldn’t do it. Not for me, not for anyone. I thought if I was loyal enough, if I cared enough, he’d finally let me in. But he never did. And it made me feel like a failure. Like I wasn’t good enough.”

Sam waited. She’d learned a long time ago that silence was often the best answer.

“He made me feel like a problem he was always trying to solve,” Erin went on, softer now. “Not a partner. Not even a friend, at the end.” She shrugged. “I don’t blame him, exactly. But I don’t forgive him either.”

Sam was quiet for a while. “He beat himself up for a year after you left. Didn’t date anyone since. Not even a hookup. He said he ruined it with the only woman who ever gave a shit about him.” She watched the words land, saw the surprise flicker through Erin’s eyes before she reined it back in. “He blamed himself for everything. Said you deserved someone who could actually be present.”

“That sounds like Andrew.” Erin’s voice was flat, but the edge had dulled. “Always the martyr.”

Sam smiled, almost sad. “He’s really not a bad guy, you know. Just… damaged.” She set her drink down and lay back on the bed, arms spread wide. “Honestly, I think he’s happiest when he’s suffering. Gives him something to do.”

Erin looked at her, then at the ceiling, then back at the drink. She tried to say something, but the words stuck. Eventually, she sighed, “Doesn’t matter now. We’re all stuck in here, playing his sick fantasy.” She laughed, bitter. “I guess I really am his prisoner.”

“Hey.” Sam sat up, suddenly serious. “You know this isn’t Andy’s fault, right? He didn’t bring us here.”

Erin’s eyes flashed, the old anger back in a heartbeat. “Does it matter?” she said, voice sharp. “We’re here. We’re playing the roles they gave us.” She gestured at herself, at the beds, at the world. “He’s the Master. I’m the one who can’t get off unless he’s watching. That’s it. That’s all I get to be now.”

Sam let the silence fill the space, then asked, “Did you try?”

Erin stared at her, blank.

“After the transformation,” Sam clarified. “Did you try… you know, testing the limits?”

A long, tense pause. Erin’s jaw worked. She looked at the glass floor, then at the window, then—finally—at Sam. “I went to the bathroom earlier. During the tour. Figured I’d get it over with.”

Sam waited, not moving.

Erin’s cheeks colored. “Nothing happened,” she said, the words quiet and hard. “Not even close. It felt like…” She shook her head, searching for a word, then sighed. “Didn’t even feel it.”

The shame in her voice was so raw, Sam had to look away. “That sucks. I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it.

Erin blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she started to cry—not loud, not even with tears, but with her shoulders shaking and her arms crossed tight over her chest.

Sam got up, crossed the room, and sat beside Erin on the edge of the bed. She put her arm around Erin’s shoulders, expecting to be shrugged off, maybe even punched. Instead, Erin just sobbed, shaking.

“Listen,” Sam said, voice soft. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But you’re not broken, Erin. Not even a little bit.” She squeezed Erin’s shoulder. “You’re one of the toughest people I know, as I remember. If anyone can get through this, you can. And you can be mad. You can hate him. You can even hate me. But don’t do this alone, okay?”

Erin’s composure crumbled then, the mask shattering all at once. She covered her face with both hands, fingers digging into her scalp, shoulders shaking. She didn’t sob, exactly—Erin never did things that gently—but her breath came in ragged, harsh bursts, a storm breaking after a season’s drought.

Sam just sat, holding on, letting her be.

After a minute, Erin whispered, “I don't want to hate anybody. But I hate this. I hate needing him. I don’t even want to.” She sounded so young, Sam wanted to go back and slap the person who made her feel like that. “I’m so tired of being the strong one.”

“You don’t have to be,” Sam said. “But you also don’t have to do this alone.”

Erin snorted, wiped her eyes. “That’s a line.”

Sam grinned. “I’m full of them. It’s a coping mechanism.”

They sat, side by side, until the worst of the crying passed. Erin leaned her head back, staring at the moon on the ceiling, tears drying into salt. Sam let go, but stayed close, their shoulders still touching.

“You ever regret it?” Erin asked, voice hoarse. “Not going for him, back in college?”

Sam thought about it. “Nope,” she said. “I was already pretty much over guys, anyway. We’re better as friends. He needs someone who’ll keep him honest. You were good for him, Erin. You still could be.”

Erin made a noncommittal sound. “We’ll see.”

For a while, that’s how they stayed: two women, side by side, watching the fish swim beneath their feet and the darkness press in from the lagoon. Eventually, Erin’s breathing slowed, her shoulders relaxed. She wiped her eyes and laughed, a choked, sheepish sound.

“Thanks,” she said, voice raw.

Sam smiled. “Anytime.”

They sat a little while longer, then, without another word, crawled under their covers, back to back, yet close enough to reach out if needed.

* "I don't know."