The common room smelled like cinnamon and violence.
Not metaphorically. Emi had been baking since before dawn—I could taste the cinnamon-sugar in the air, see the faint dusting of flour on the kitchen counter like snow that had wandered indoors and decided to stay. The residual ozone from my combat suit had followed me through the front door like a stray dog following another stray dog. Full circle. Very poetic. Somebody give me a book deal and a therapist who specializes in emotional compartmentalization.
