The weight of Harper’s injuries made each step a monumental effort.

Her legs, once firm and agile, now quivered like frail saplings in a storm, barely able to bear the weight of her battered body. She trudged through the desolate hallways, the silence around her so profound it felt like a tangible shroud, smothering any hope of life or rescue.

The artificial light, sterile and unforgiving, cast an unflattering glow over the scene where she was, unfortunately, the sole character. It was as if the light itself was an interrogator, exposing every tear of her AR suit and every streak of blood that defiled her once pristine skin. The walls, observers of her plight, stood lined with glass-fronted study rooms that bore witness to countless hours of scholarly pursuit, now just empty chambers echoing with the ghosts of academia.

Driven by fear and determination, she continued to navigate the mazelike corridors, her mind clinging to the faint hope of encountering another soul. Surely, in this expanse of isolation, there must be another living being? A friend, preferably. Surely, the fickle hands of fate must turn in her favour once more? The young girl did not think she could fight someone else in her state and live another day. Not this time.

Her fingers, smeared with the crimson evidence of her ordeal, clung to the cool glass for support, leaving behind a macabre trail as her vision blurred and danced with the threat of unconsciousness. The only sounds that dared to break the oppressive silence were the ragged symphony of her breathing and the morbid percussion of her blood, drop by drop, staining the pristine tiles beneath her feet.

The lights above began to sputter like dying stars, yet Harper, perched precariously on the brink of shock, scarcely noticed it. Instead, she fought against her body’s attempt to succumb to an encroaching darkness, a creeping void threatening to swallow her whole.

“Keep moving,” she murmured, the words a fragile lifeline in the engulfing darkness. With each push against the solid reality of a doorframe, she willed her body forward, grimacing as pain lanced through her. But the agony was a mere echo compared to the thunderous call of duty that resonated within her—Aurora needed her. She needed help. And she was somewhere in here. This singular thought, this unwavering purpose, was the beacon that guided her through her suffering.

As she rounded a corner, Harper’s balance faltered, her body teetering on the brink of collapse. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, a gauntlet of flickering lights that cast long, haunting shadows as if the very darkness was reaching out to claim her. Each step was a declaration of war against the rebellion of her own flesh and bone, her spirit the general commanding her to persevere. It was a reliance on sheer willpower she had summoned many times before, but never under such dire circumstances, never while waging a simultaneous battle against the betrayal of her own wounded form.

At long last, the end of her torturous journey came into view—a set of double doors, slightly parted, as if in invitation or warning. Beyond lay a room shrouded in shadows, its contents obscured and ominous. Harper’s heart hammered against her ribs, a drumroll of anticipation and dread, as she mustered the strength to push the doors wide. Her gaze, sharpened by adrenaline, immediately found the still, supine figure on the unforgiving floor.

“Rora?” she managed, her voice filled with some hope. It was only when she really started to take in what- or rather who- she was seeing that Harper practically bolted forward, ignoring the pain that shot through her as a result. She knelt beside Haven, her hands shaking as she reached out. She hesitated, the blood on her own hands briefly reminding her of her earlier ordeal. She wanted to touch Haven, to shake her awake, but fear of causing more harm stayed her hand.

Compelled by desperation and tenderness, Harper leaned in, her whisper a fervent plea against the silence.“Haven, please, wake up. It’s me, Harper. We need to get out of here.” Her voice, laced with urgency, seemed to dissipate into the void, met with nothing but the stillness of the unresponsive form before her.

Harper’s eyes roved over Haven’s form, searching for any signs of further injury. The uplinks lay discarded on either side of her head, a possible clue to what had happened. Harper carefully moved one of them aside, her fingers brushing against Haven’s temple in the process.

“Haven, I’m here,” she murmured again, placing her hand gently on Haven's shoulder this time, giving a light, tentative shake. “Please, wake up.”

Time seemed to fracture, each second a heavy drop in the ocean of Harper’s anxiety, each tick of the clock a measure of her growing fear.

Please.

Haven's shallow breathing suddenly hitched as the movement altered her conscious. Where her limp hand laid beside Harper, her fingers twitched. Then an imperceptible line formed between her brows, so subtle that only keen eyes could notice.

She'd heard Harper's voice. She'd felt her teammate's touch against her shoulder. Inside her, she clawed her way to the surface of alertness. Harper was here-- she was safe. Haven climbed her way out of the sludge that her mind had become, and...

Slowly, Haven's eyelids lifted. They were still so heavy. Her body still refused to move. She desperately wanted to take Harper's hand, but she found herself settling for the ankle positioned next to her weak digits. Her lazy eyes lifted to Harper's face, and what she saw carved into her teammate's pale skin wrung the life out of her heart.

"Harps..." The words slipped out of her scarcely moving lips. Her rasping voice still carried the weight of her grief.

The moment Haven’s voice pierced the silence, it was as though time itself had paused, the air charged with the gravity of her utterance. Relief cascaded through her, a wave that cleansed away the layers of fear and pain, if only momentarily, infusing Harper with newfound vigour.

With hands marred by the trials of her ordeal, Harper reached out, her fingers quivering as they sought the warmth of human connection. They found Haven’s hand, cold and still, and enveloped it, the blood from her wounds painting the pallor of the skin there. And then, a miracle—a faint pressure, a squeeze from Haven’s fingers, feeble yet unmistakably present, a silent message of the will to survive shared by both women in the moment.

“Little Dove,” Harper exhaled, her voice fragile. “We… we need to go. Can you… move?”

The name warmed Haven’s heart the same way Harper’s hand warmed her fingers. Yet the anxiety present in Harper’s tone didn’t make it easy to feel better. She’d never heard her friend sound so… scared. What had she been through? Who had done that to her skin?

“Too much blood.” She managed, swallowing against the soreness in her throat before she took another shallow breath to speak again. “It’s over. The walls… they’re blank.”

“We’re ok.”

As Harper’s eyes swept across the room, they caught the intricate honeycomb pattern etched into the walls and ceiling.

So, it was indeed over. The trials, the terror, the relentless pursuit—it had all come to an end.

Finally.

“We can leave…” Harper’s voice was a hushed murmur, a soft declaration of their hard-won freedom. Despite the exhaustion that clung to her words, a faint smile graced her lips. “Just… hold on.”

Gathering the remnants of her strength, Harper pushed herself to her feet. Her stance was shaky, her body protesting the movement, but her spirit was unyielding. She scanned the room for something to aid Haven, her eyes landing on a sturdy chair that seemed untouched by the turmoil. With a grit born of necessity, she dragged it across the floor, its legs scraping against the tile.

Positioning the chair beside Haven, Harper eased her friend into the seat with as much gentleness as her trembling arms could muster. They both grimaced, their injuries a chorus of pain, but the act of sitting was a small victory in itself.

“Lean on me,” Harper encouraged, her arm wrapping around Haven’s shoulders in a solid embrace of support.

The winged woman looked warily at the space before her, unsure if she could bear to put any more weight on her leg. Yet Harper’s spirit was contagious. Despite their mutual pain, and the sluggishness in her own movements, Haven placed her trust in Harper and willed her body to make the final journey.

Her mind drifted to the past as she was reminded of another friend, whom she’d considered a sister, who had done the same for her once. Her eyes slid over to Harper, and she found herself thinking of her teammate the same way. Had she noticed it before today? How was it so easy to let Harper pick her up like that?

The pair found the exit to the room. What once had been sterile, endless white hallways now stood dark passages of honeycomb. In the distance, they could already hear the school’s emergency response faculty searching for survivors. They’d survived the game.

Could they survive the fallout?

---

There was no way she could do this.

Harper remained motionless, cocooned in her bed, as the first rays of dawn crept through the gaps in the curtains, casting a soft, diffused light across the room. The world outside was waking up; the distant sounds of doors opening and closing, the muffled footsteps of early risers, and the faint voices of her dorm mates starting their day were sounds of normalcy that she now felt disconnected from.

The ceiling above offered no comfort, just a blank canvas where the shadows of her thoughts played out in endless loops. Today marked the beginning of a new term, a return to routines and expectations, to lectures and exams, but for Harper, it was a threshold she felt paralyzed to cross. The very idea of stepping out into the hallways, of mingling with her peers, sent a wave of dread crashing over her, leaving her breathless.

She sat up slowly, her movements languid, as if moving through water. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the contours of the scars that marred her face—delicate lines that told a story she wasn't ready to share. The healers had woven their magic, mending what they could, but some wounds were beyond the reach of special abilities. They lingered on her skin, a map of her ordeal, a reminder of the trial that had stripped her of her fragile invincibility.

Harper's reflection was a stranger to her now, the dishevelled hair framing her face like the chaotic thoughts that tangled her mind. Each unevenly cut lock fell without grace, a great contrast to the meticulous, sleek style she had once crafted with such care and that had helped form her reputation since attending P.R.C.U. The difference was not just noticeable—it was a chasm, a departure from the Harper who had walked the halls with an air of untouchable grace.

Now, she felt as wild and unruly on the outside as the animal the trials had almost freed on the inside.

She exhaled deeply, the sound heavy with the weight of realization. Her knees came up to meet her chest, and her arms wrapped around them, forming a barrier between her and the world. Confidence had been her signature, the armour that she wore with pride, but the trials had left it battered and tarnished. Now, she felt as if she were standing on a battlefield, defenceless, her shield in ruins at her feet.

The relentless ticking of the clock was a cruel reminder of time's indifference to her failing pride. 7:45 AM—the numbers glared at her, each tick a nudge, a push toward a reality she wasn't prepared to face. The world outside her door beckoned, a river of students already flowing toward the day's promises and responsibilities. But Harper remained still, a stone in the current, her anxiety an anchor that held her fast.

Her friends, her dear Haven with eyes that had seen too much, they would be waiting, expecting her to emerge, ready to face the day. They had shared their own trials, each carrying their own scars, visible or not.

But the thought of stepping out, of meeting the gazes of those who knew nothing of her pain, was a wall she couldn't scale. Judgment, pity, revulsion—these were the ghosts that haunted her, the ghosts that whispered doubts and fears.

"I can't do this," she admitted to the walls, to the ceiling, to the silent witnesses of her unravelling. The resolve to change, to metamorphose into the person she aspired to be, flickered within her—a lone spark in the oppressive gloom of her doubts. But the path to transformation was shrouded in mist, the steps to reclaiming the scattered fragments of her identity obscured and daunting.

How could she gather the pieces of herself, the shards of confidence and self-assuredness that had once defined her? They seemed like relics of a bygone era, remnants of a persona that had been shattered by the recent trials and tribulations. The chasm between who she was in this moment and who she needed to become felt insurmountable.

It was then that a previously insignificant memory surfaced, unbidden but clear—a teammate, a friend who had once revealed her own struggle with self-image to them all. Not by choice…but.

Harper found she could relate to it, to her, now especially.

With her relentless pursuit of perfection that could never be attained.

The Ursus dormitory’s corridors lay in a hushed stillness, the usual bustle of underclassmen moving in being absent here. Instead, there was a sense of familiarity, the walls adorned with posters and pictures from years past, each telling a story of the lives that had passed through.

Harper stood outside Calliope's room, clenching and unclenching her fists.

The thought nagged at her: what if the other woman had no interest in even seeing her? They weren’t exactly close. And they had both, most of all, personally worked on the trials for the freshmen before it had been hijacked. Harper feared that her presence might only serve as an unwelcome reminder of a chapter both of them wished to close. Her, desperately.

With a trepidation that felt like a physical weight, Harper raised her hand, her knuckles stopping just shy of the wood, as if even that small distance was a chasm filled with the potential for rejection. The thought that Calliope might have already departed for class, or sought refuge in a quiet corner of the campus—a haven from the prying eyes and whispered judgments—loomed in the brunette’s mind.

Shaking off the uncertainty, Harper's knuckles met the wood with a soft but firm rap. The sound cut through the silence, a clear signal of her presence. She waited, the seconds stretching into an eternity.

If Calliope wasn’t there then she would just…well, she would just….

The brunette’s hands, acting of their own accord, rose to her hoodie to grapple with the absence of hair that had once been a curtain she could hide behind. Her fingers searched for solace in the shortened strands, while her lips found themselves caught between her teeth, an unwitting prisoner to the anxiety that gnawed at her.

Calliope held her phone in her hand. A text message in preparation of being written. She kept typing and deleting.

‘I think we….’
Delete.

‘It’s better if we….’
Delete.

‘I love…’
Delete.

She stared at the screen. Uncertain. Unmoored. The past few days of seeing some of her team really drove home just how broken they were. Even the ones who plastered sunny smiles on their faces, her especially, were troubled. And she played a part in it. That’s what she said to herself.
She wanted to go back to normal but what was normal anymore? Was she to keep living a lie? And would the truth be any better?

Before Calliope could wrack her brain more she heard a knock on her door. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Everyone else had run off in preparation for classes. Banjo was busy. Calliope put her phone down and got up from her bed, making her way to the door. She grabbed the handle with some trepidation and she mentally chastised herself for it. But the school was no longer safe.

She opened it a bit and looked out, seeing a familiar figure. Harper. Unexpected. Not unwelcome. Calliope finished opening the door. She attempted a smile that, as much as she tried, did not reach her eyes. “Harper. What a nice surprise. What can I do for you?” Calliope noticed the hair. Should she ask about it? Should she compliment her on it? Did Harper like it and would be annoyed if she asked? She really wasn’t herself anymore.

Harper, for her part, seemed caught in a dance of discomfort, her body language clearly displaying her nervous energy. Her eyes darted about the room behind the blonde, taking in the distant surroundings before anchoring back on Calliope. “Can I… can I come in for a moment? I need to talk… to you,” she asked.

Calliope noticed the tension and said nothing. It was not her place. Given all they had gone through it made sense Harper would be uncomfortable. After all, Calliope failed her just as much.

She took a step back and opened the door further. “Please, come in.” Calli would allow Harper to set the pace of this meeting, though Calli couldn’t help but wonder what she wanted. And why didn’t she go ask Haven or Aurora, girls who seemed closer to her? Not that Calli disliked Harper. It had to be something important and perhaps…awkward.

Harper stepped over the threshold, her movements deliberate, echoing softly in the stillness of the room. It was as though she were crossing into a sanctum, a place of quiet majesty that was undeniably Calliope’s realm, each detail that surrounded her to the blonde’s exacting standards. Books, their spines a spectrum of academia and literature, were stacked with geometric precision, while writing instruments lay in wait, their points sharp and ready, like loyal subjects prepared to serve at a moment’s notice. The desk was a command center, organized with an efficiency that spoke of planned late nights she was no doubt going to have. Potted plants, green and lush, thrived in the golden wash of sunlight that streamed through the window, their leaves reaching towards the light with a quiet determination that Harper found both comforting and enviable.

Calliope had good taste- a mind that valued structure and beauty in equal measure, which was no surprise to the brunette, really.

She paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts, her gaze lingering on one or two familiar photos that adorned the walls. Then, with a breath that seemed to carry the weight of her decision, she turned to face Calliope. “I… I need your help,” Harper began. The next words felt like a leap into the unknown. “I don’t know what to do about my hair. Could you… could you cut it for me?”

Harper fought the instinct to retreat into herself, to nibble at her lip as she so often did when uncertainty crept in. She pushed forward, her explanation tumbling out in a rush of words that felt both freeing and terrifying. “I figured…well no it’s just that you’ve…always given me the impression of being good at that kind of…stuff. Like makeup and…stuff.” The words were awkward, a clumsy dance around the truth that she sought not just Calliope’s skill but her care, her touch. This was going well, she thought, a wry smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. Things were severely more awkward than she had intended.

Calliope watched Harper look around her room before finally stating her intention. “You want me to….cut your hair?” She had to admit it was not a question she considered. Harper’s other words hit her though. Calli knew Harper meant it as a compliment and Calliope took it as such.

And yet.

The implication was there. Heavy like a weight in her stomach. YOU are good at this Calliope, surely. YOU look put-together all the time which must mean you are good at fashion and style. That begged the question: What did people think when they looked at her? To some, it seems, she was fashionable and thus, must be good at all things that required an eye for style and flair. And, in a sense, she was.

Never mind that she had to know how to look good because of her father. The expectations that a woman needed to look her best at all times or how else was she expected to attract a mate? Meanwhile, her mother never showed her how to do it with care. There was always an underlying fear to her words when putting on make-up or styling her hair.

Calliope mentally shook it off. Harper was not like this. Harper came to her out of everyone else she knew and that made Calliope special, even if she felt anything but. “I mean, I guess I can. I’ll let you know I have never cut hair before, but I can see what I can do from YouTube tutorials. I don’t want to mess it up though. Are you sure?”

Hazel eyes, usually so full of resolve, now shimmered with a raw desperation. “Yes, I’m sure,” Harper affirmed. “I just… I need to do something. I need to take control of—” The words caught in her throat, a confession half-formed, stifled by a sudden rush of shame. It was the admission of a need to command even the smallest aspect of her life, to hold dominion over something as mundane yet personal as her hair.

She averted her gaze, her fingers betraying how she felt as they toyed with the hem of her hoodie. “I trust you, Calliope,” Harper said simply, and the truth of it resonated in the quiet space between them. It was a trust not extended to herself, for Harper had never ventured beyond the simple routine of trims and self-care, the familiar ritual of washing and nurturing her locks. Her hair had been a constant, requiring no more than the occasional snip and the loving attention she could easily provide.

“I just need it to be…even,” she continued, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’ll figure out what to do with the rest of it later.”

It didn’t take a genius to put this together. Clearly, Harper was going through something. A deep turmoil only her mind knew. And wasn’t Calli going through something similar? Granted Calli didn’t want to cut her hair. But Harper did.

“Okay, okay. I can make it even. I don’t have salon scissors though so it will have to be regular-duty ones. Do you…want something to read while I cut?” God, she felt so weird about this. Harper was placing her trust in Calli and that was no small feat. Calli wanted to do a good job. She needed to. She didn’t want to be the one to damage Harper’s hair even more. “I have some classic stuff, probably a mystery or two if you want. Or we can….talk while I work? We haven’t really caught up since…you know.”

Harper’s lips curved into a tentative smile, a silent acknowledgment of the care Calliope was extending towards her. “Talking would be nice,” she murmured, her voice soft but sincere. She eased herself into the chair Calliope had pulled out, feeling the solid support beneath her as a small but necessary comfort. As she settled in, her eyes caught the gleam of the scissors resting on the desk. A shadow of apprehension flickered across her features, but she quickly pushed her doubts aside. She had said she trusted Calliope, and she meant it.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just… better,” Harper reassured, her words meant as much for herself as for Calliope. She needed to hear it, to remind herself that perfection was not the goal—improvement was. The simple act of asking for help, of allowing someone else to take control, was a step towards reclaiming a part of herself that felt lost.

Calliope grabbed the scissors and stood and stared for a moment. She looked at Harper’s hair to determine where to start. As soon as she was somewhat assured, she picked up a piece of hair and snipped, allowing the strand to fall to the ground. She’d have to clean it up before her roommate returned.

“So, how are you doing?” A simple question loaded with ticking time bombs. Because how else would she feel after what happened? But Calli didn’t want to push or press. She, herself, wasn’t quite ready to talk about it. Hell, Banjo barely knew what her thoughts were.

Calli glanced at her phone again. Then back to cutting.

Harper felt the tension in the room, a palpable undercurrent of unspoken understanding that they were both navigating a minefield of memories and emotions. She glanced at Calliope in the mirror, who was momentarily distracted by her phone, its screen dark and devoid of notifications. Was she expecting someone? Or perhaps her thoughts were drifting to someone she wished would reach out? Should she dare ask her any of this? It was none of her business, after all.

Taking a deep breath, Harper decided to simply answer Calliope’s question instead once the girl resumed her task. “I’m… managing,” she said, her voice steady but soft, “It’s been hard, you know? Trying to find a new normal after everything.” She paused, her eyes following the path of another lock of hair as it drifted to the floor. “But I’m trying to take it one day at a time.”

Harper watched Calliope in the mirror then, noting the concentration etched on her teammate’s face. The way Calliope’s brow furrowed slightly as she worked, the careful precision of her movements—it was clear that she was putting her heart into this small act of kindness. The brunette felt a surge of gratitude, mixed with a pang of guilt for burdening her with her troubles. Because surely she had some of her own.

“How about…you?” Harper ventured, her voice tentative. It was a simple question, but she knew it carried the weight of everything unsaid between them. She hoped it would open a door, even just a crack, to understanding what Calliope was going through.

Calli glanced back at her phone when Harper asked how she was. What could she say? The normal response was “fine” and then you moved on from the conversation. How could she say she felt equal parts guilt and anger over the Trials? “Same here. Managing, trying not to let it drive me insane. You know, typical college shenanigans.” Her attempt at humor drew her mind back to Banjo.

She continued to clip hair after hair, doing her best to even it out enough that Harper was happy or at least content with her work. “I haven’t spoken to anyone really after it all went down. Except for Banjo, of course, but that goes without saying. You’re the first I’ve interacted with since….since we got out.” An opening, perhaps. A way to talk about it without talking about it.

Harper felt a pang of empathy. She knew firsthand how isolating it could be to carry the weight of memories like that alone. But at least…the blonde wasn’t alone in this. Not in the same way Harper was.

“I get that,” she said quietly. “It’s hard to know what to say or…who to say it to.” She watched Calliope’s reflection in the mirror, continuing to note the way her friend’s hands moved with steady precision, even as her eyes betrayed a flicker of whatever was going on in that head of hers.

“Banjo really has been good to you…hasn’t he?” Harper continued, her tone light but laced with genuine curiosity. She wanted to keep the conversation meaningful without delving too deeply into the painful memories that lay just beneath the surface, waiting for their moment to rise and burst the bubble of geniality around them. “I’m glad you have someone like that.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “I guess we all need someone to help us through times like this.”

And it wasn’t to say that Harper didn’t have that. She had Aurora, or Haven, or even Katja. Yet somehow…somehow she found herself drifting back into her old habits. Habits of complete silence, of shouldering her burdens alone, of not wanting to impose her invisible wounds on those she cared about. The trials had brought up things, memories, of the countless times she had retreated into herself, hiding her pain behind a facade of strength. It was easier that way, or so she had convinced herself.

But maybe with Calliope, it could be different. With Calli…she had nothing much to lose. There were no expectations to meet, no image to uphold. It was a selfish thought, but it was nothing untrue.

Harper felt a strange sense of liberation in that realization.

Calliope smiled softly knowing how lucky she was to have someone like Banjo there for her. And yet she couldn’t hide the guilt. Her inner voice echoed in her mind. “Yeah, he’s great. He’s been a rock through this.” Calliope knew better though. There were things left unsaid. Moments where there was still love, there would always be love, but also those little bits in between that went unacknowledged. Sometimes those were the most dangerous. Big things can be worked through. Little things had a habit of slipping through the cracks and causing more damage.

But even then she knew she loved Banjo. That wouldn’t stop. “So, anyone in your life like that? Weren’t you talking to someone the night before the Trials?” Calli seemed to recall though her mind was elsewhere that night.

Harper hesitated, the question stirring memories she had honestly almost forgotten with everything that had happened this week.

“Err, yeah,” she started, the words slowly forming in her mind as she tried to articulate her thoughts. “But it’s not like… that.” She trailed off, unsure of how to explain what she herself wasn’t entirely clear on. What did she mean by “that”? She decided to stick with what she did know.

“It was Cass, Lorcán’s cousin, I think?” Harper continued, her voice gaining a bit more confidence. “We were just talking about some stuff and…” She paused, the uncertainty creeping back in. Should she mention the next part? Would it even matter? But then again, Calliope would find out eventually once the dance came around.

“He sorta asked me to go with him to the dance,” Harper admitted, her tone casual but with an underlying hint of uncertainty. “And I figured… why not?” She shrugged, trying to downplay the significance of it all. Because, in the grand scheme of things, none of it seemed to matter that much anymore. The dance. Getting a date for it. All those things that once felt so important now seemed trivial compared to everything else they had been through.

Harper snorted aloud, a sound that was part amusement, part frustration. “I wish that had been the biggest thing to worry about this week. Who would have thought, you know?”

Calliope could agree. In retrospect, the dance seemed silly now. Yet, she was still in charge of setting it up. She couldn’t tell them that it worried her that the dance would be taken over like the Trials. She wanted to ensure people forgot what happened.

“Well, maybe it’s a good thing. My therapist reminded me that life goes on even if bad things happen. Perhaps a night at the dance with a cute boy would do you some good. Plus, I am willing to bet he is going to love your new look.” She snipped off the last piece before she put the scissors down. “Tell me how that looks. Need me to do any more?”

Harper looked at the mirror, her eyes scanning her reflection. The new haircut was…different. A big change. So different from what she’d looked like before. And while it was in a much better state than how her sister’s clone had left it, the sight of her new look sent a jolt through her. The uneven, jagged edges were gone, replaced by a more uniform cut.

But it still felt foreign.

Like she was staring at a complete stranger.