The assignment comes Thursday morning. Standard format. Professional. Clean.
ASSIGNMENT #087-A Location: 142 Rivington Street, Apartment 3C Client: Building Management Situation: Unit requires cleansing before re-rental. Previous tenant deceased three years ago. Residual activity reported by maintenance. Payment: $5,000 Timeline: Complete by end of day Note: Sensitive location. Handle with discretion.
I stare at the address. 142 Rivington Street. It's familiar. I know that address. Know that building. But can't place it. Can't remember why it matters.
Then I do.
That's where Mom died.
142 Rivington Street. Apartment 3C. Our old apartment. The place we lived before she died. The place I haven't been back to in three years. The place I avoid. The place I can't think about without falling apart.
Cameron sent me to Mom's apartment. To the place where she died. Where I found her body. Where I last saw her before she was gone.
This isn't coincidence. Cameron knows. The Board knows. They know where my mother died. Know I haven't been back. Know this will hurt.
They're testing me. Or teaching me. Or breaking me. Maybe all three.
Accept assignment? Y/N
I should refuse. Should tell Cameron to find someone else. Should explain this is my mother's apartment. Should say I can't. Won't. Refuse.
But the contract has no provision for refusal. No clause for emotional difficulty. No exception for personal connection. Just: complete assigned work or breach contract. And breach means penalties. Means losing everything. Means Mika in danger.
And $5,000. For one apartment. For one job. Easy money. Professional work.
Even if that apartment is where Mom died. Even if that job is erasing my own mother.
I accept.
Cameron's response: Acknowledged. Building management expects completion today. Access code provided. This assignment demonstrates your professional commitment.
Professional commitment. That's what they're calling it. Making me erase my own mother to prove I'm committed. To prove I'm owned. To prove there's nothing I won't do for the Board.
They're right. There isn't. I already proved that by signing the contract. By working myself to death. By consuming violence until I'm more monster than girl. What's one more horror? What's erasing Mom compared to erasing dozens of others?
Just another job. Just another cleansing. Just another step toward complete transformation.
I pack my equipment. Professional supplies. Silver-inlaid salt. Ritualized bleach. Industrial sage. All the tools for efficient erasure. Same tools Mom probably used. Same methods. Same system. Different generation. Same doom.
I take the train to the Lower East Side. Get off at Essex. Walk the familiar blocks. I know this neighborhood. Grew up here. Played in these streets. Bought groceries from these stores. This was home.
Before Mom died. Before everything changed. Before I became this.
The building looks the same. Old tenement. Red brick. Fire escapes rusting. Same building I ran home to after school. Same stairs I climbed every day. Same door I unlocked with keys that don't work anymore.
Except it's different too. Smaller somehow. Dirtier. More run-down. Like my memory polished it. Made it better than it was. Made it home instead of just another building in a city full of buildings.
Or maybe I've changed. Maybe I see differently now. Through eyes that process supernatural before natural. Through Stain-Sight that never turns off. Through the lens of someone who erases homes for money.
I enter. Security door doesn't lock anymore. Just pushed open. Anyone can enter. Nobody cares.
The hallway smells like mold and cooking and decay. Old carpet. Old paint. Old building full of old problems. Poor people problems. The kind that don't get fixed. The kind that accumulate. The kind that eventually lead to buildings being condemned and residents being displaced and luxury condos being built.
I start climbing stairs. To the third floor. To apartment 3C. To where Mom died.
And I smell it.
Her scent. Mom's scent. Wolf Beastkin like me. Specific smell that's hers. That I'd know anywhere. That I haven't smelled in three years. That shouldn't be here. That can't be here. She's dead. Cremated. Gone.
But the scent is there. Faint. Old. Like perfume someone wore days ago. Like trace residue. Like echo made smell.
I follow it. Up the stairs. Stronger with each step. By the time I reach the third floor landing, it's overwhelming. Like she just walked through here. Like she's waiting inside. Like she's still alive and still cleaning and still dying slowly and I can save her.
Except I can't. She's gone. Has been gone. This is just supernatural residue. Just the echoes of someone who lived here and worked here and died here. Just the remnants of a cleaner who gave everything to a system that consumed her.
Just what I'm becoming. Just my future. Just the path I'm following.
Apartment 3C. Door is unlocked. Access code in Cameron's message but I don't need it. Door just opens. Like the building wants me inside. Like it's been waiting. Like it knew I'd come back eventually.
I step inside.
The apartment is empty. Completely empty. No furniture. No belongings. No evidence anyone lived here. Just bare walls and scratched floors and the bones of a place that used to be home.
I remember it full. Couch against the wall. TV on the stand. Kitchen table with mismatched chairs. Mom's armchair by the window where she'd sit and rest after work. Mika's room. My room. Our home.
Now it's just space. Just empty space waiting to be filled with someone new. Someone who doesn't know. Someone who won't care. Someone for whom this is just another apartment in a city full of apartments.
But through my Stain-Sight, I see it.
The shimmer. Concentrated. Old but strong. Three years of accumulation. Three years of supernatural residue building up. Three years of echo repeating.
And standing in the living room. Right where her armchair used to be.
Mom.
Her echo. Her supernatural imprint. Not violent. Not replaying death like most echoes. Just standing. Wearing her cleaning clothes—old jeans, faded sweatshirt, practical shoes. And gloves. Black gloves. Stained completely. The same as mine.
She's staring at her hands. At the gloves. At the black stains that cover them. At the evidence of her work. Of her consumption. Of her transformation.
And her arms. I can see them even though the echo is faint, translucent. Black veins. Covering her hands. Her wrists. Her forearms. Disappearing under her sleeves but I know they go higher. Know they covered her completely by the end. Know she looked like Marcus. Like what I'm becoming.
The echo looks up. Sees me. Makes eye contact.
Most echoes don't see cleaners. Don't register us as real. Don't interact. Just replay their moment over and over without awareness.
But Mom's echo sees me. Knows I'm here. Recognizes me somehow. Daughter. Cleaner. Same curse. Same doom. Same path.
Her mouth moves. Forms words with no sound. I read her lips:
"I'm sorry."
Sorry. For what? For dying? For leaving us? For being a cleaner? For passing the Gift to me? For failing to protect me from the same fate that killed her?
All of it. Everything. She's sorry for all of it.
The echo moves. Not walking. Just relocating. One moment in the living room. Next moment in the bedroom doorway. Beckoning. Follow me. Come see. Come understand.
I follow.
The bedroom is empty too. Bare walls. Bare floor. Window looking out over the alley. The room where Mom slept. Where she'd rest her few hours between jobs. Where she'd lie awake worrying about money and bills and her children's future.
Where she finally died. Where I found her. Three years ago. Morning before school. She didn't wake up. Didn't respond when I shook her. Didn't breathe. Just gone. Too young. Too sudden. Heart gave out, doctors said. Stress and overwork and poor health and bad luck.
Except it wasn't bad luck. Wasn't just stress. Was the work. The cleansing. The consumption. The transformation that the Board tracks and measures and expects. The cost that all cleaners pay. The price for erasing people.
Mom paid it. Fully. Completely. With everything she was.
I pull on my gloves. The world shifts. The shimmer becomes visible. And on the walls—written in something I can only see through Stain-Sight—messages.
Mom's handwriting. I'd know it anywhere. Careful. Precise. The same handwriting from birthday cards and school permission slips and notes in my lunch.
Except these notes aren't for teachers or for me. These are warnings. Records. Evidence. Written on walls that only cleaners can see. Written in supernatural medium that normal people can't perceive. Written as testimony for whoever came after.
Written for me.
STARTED: June 2006. Age 20. They recruited me after my mother died. Same building. Same Gift. Same curse.
I was born in 2006. She started cleaning the year I was born. Or the year before. While pregnant. While carrying me. The Gift passing down. The curse transferring. The doom becoming mine before I was even born.
JOBS: Too many to count. Every week. Sometimes every day. They pay well. I can feed my children. Can keep them safe. Can give them things I never had.
COST: Memories first. Then emotions. Then pieces of myself. By year five I couldn't remember my own mother's face. By year ten I couldn't remember why I started. By year fifteen I couldn't remember anything except the work.
Fifteen years. She lasted fifteen years before memories were completely gone. Before there was nothing left but function. But I'm three months in and already losing myself. The professional equipment accelerates everything. Maximum value extraction.
PHYSICAL: Black veins started year three. Both arms by year eight. Face by year twelve. Entire body by year fifteen. I look like monster. My children don't recognize me. Mika cries when I hold him. Vedia asks why Mommy looks scary.
I remember that. Remember being afraid of Mom toward the end. Remember her looking wrong. Remember her skin being dark and strange and her eyes being too bright. Remember not wanting to hug her because she felt cold. Felt wrong. Felt like something else wearing Mom's shape.
I thought it was illness. Thought it was cancer or some disease. Didn't know. Couldn't know. She never told me. Never explained. Never warned.
THE GIFT: It passes down. Mother to daughter. Father to son. Runs in families. My mother had it. Her mother before her. Probably back generations. The district knows. The Board tracks families. Recruits children when parents die. Keeps the supply fresh.
Inherited curse. Family doom. Something in our blood that makes us valuable. Makes us useful. Makes us perfect vessels for consumption. The Board doesn't recruit randomly. They track bloodlines. Wait for new generations. Harvest us like crops.
I TRIED: Tried to keep you away. Never taught you about cleaning. Never explained the work. Never showed you the gloves. Thought if you didn't know, you wouldn't follow. Thought ignorance would protect you.
I WAS WRONG.
She tried. Spent seventeen years hiding what she was. Hiding what she did. Lying about her work. Pretending to be normal cleaner instead of supernatural eraser. All to protect me and Mika. All to keep us away from the Board. All to break the cycle.
Failed. The Board found me anyway. The district claimed me anyway. The Gift manifested anyway. You can't hide from what's in your blood. Can't escape what's in your genes. Can't run from inherited doom.
IF YOU'RE READING THIS: You're one too. A cleaner. The Gift manifested. The Board recruited you. The cycle continues. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried to prevent this. Tried to protect you. Failed.
THE BOARD PROMISED: They said if I worked until I died, they'd leave you and Mika alone. Said they'd let the curse end with me. Said my children would be free. I believed them. Worked myself to death believing them. Kept cleaning kept consuming kept transforming kept hoping my sacrifice would save you.
THEY LIED.
Of course they lied. Of course the Board doesn't keep promises. Of course they wanted another Aquila. Another cleaner with the Gift. Another vessel to consume violence. Another generation to exploit.
Mom died for nothing. Her sacrifice meaningless. Her seventeen years of suffering bought nothing. No protection. No freedom. No escape. Just me following the same path seventeen years later.
More writing. Dates. Job locations. Evidence of years spent erasing people. Hundreds of jobs. Thousands maybe. All the hauntings she cleansed. All the victims she erased. All the violence she consumed. All compiled here. All written as testimony. All left for someone to find.
Left for me.
WHAT I LEARNED: The district is alive. Not metaphor. Actually alive. It feeds on erasure. On violence made clean. On evidence destroyed. Cleaners are its digestive system. We consume what it feeds us. Process violence into nothing. Become part of its infrastructure.
The Board manages this. Recruits cleaners. Assigns jobs. Ensures the district stays fed. Keeps the cycle running. Keeps the violence flowing. Keeps the erasure constant. They're not human. Haven't been for long time. Maybe never were. They're the district's voice. Its face. Its appetite made organized.
Cameron: Specific recruiter. Has been around at least twenty years. Maybe longer. Recruited me. Recruited dozens of others. Will recruit you if you're reading this. Doesn't age. Doesn't change. Isn't human. Is the district's recruiting arm. Its HR department for death.
Everything Mrs. Kowalski said. Everything Marcus warned about. Everything Garrett knew. Mom understood it all. Seventeen years of experience. Seventeen years of observation. Seventeen years of understanding the system that was consuming her.
And she wrote it down. Left evidence. Left warning. Left testimony for whoever came after. For me.
One final message. In the bathroom. On the mirror. Written in something dark. Something that looks like blood. Real blood, not supernatural medium. Mom's blood. Written the day before she died.
I recognize the date. Day before I found her. Last day she was alive. Last message she left.
They promised if I worked until I died, they'd leave you and Mika alone. I believed them. I was wrong. I'm sorry.
By the time you read this, they've recruited you. The Board owns you. The district is consuming you. The transformation is happening. Same as me. Same as my mother. Same as her mother. Same curse. Same doom. Same ending.
GET MIKA OUT. Get him away from the Bowery. Away from the district. Away from Cameron. Away from anything that might recruit him. He doesn't have the Gift—it passes mother to daughter, father to son, skips alternating generations. He's safe. But only if you get him out before the district notices him.
You won't save yourself. I know that. I couldn't save myself either. But save him. That's all that matters. All I couldn't do. All I'm asking.
I love you. I'm sorry. I failed you.
—Mom
Dated the day before she died. The day before her heart gave out from seventeen years of consuming violence. The day before the transformation finally finished what the Board started.
Her last message. Her last warning. Her last hope that I could do what she couldn't. Save Mika. Get him out. Break the cycle even if I can't escape it.
And I have to erase it.
Have to cleanse this apartment. Have to destroy the evidence. Have to remove Mom's testimony. Have to erase her warnings. Have to make it like she never wrote this. Like she never tried to protect me. Like she never understood what killed her.
Because that's the job. That's what I'm paid for. That's what the Board expects. Complete the assignment. Erase the haunting. Make the apartment clean. $5,000 for destroying my mother's legacy.
My phone buzzes. Cameron: Status update? Client expects completion today.
Client. Building management. Probably hired the Board. Probably doesn't even know what's being erased. Probably just wants apartment clean so they can rent it. So they can make money. So they can move forward without thinking about the woman who died here. The cleaner who gave seventeen years. The mother who tried to warn her daughter.
I look at Mom's echo. She's standing beside me. Looking at her own message. The last thing she wrote. The final warning that I'm about to destroy.
She looks at me. Mouths words: "I love you. Save Mika."
Same message. Same plea. Same hope. Save the one who can be saved. Let the doomed stay doomed. Break the cycle even if it costs everything.
I pick up my supplies. Salt. Bleach. Sage. Professional equipment. The same tools Mom used. The same system. The same methods that consumed her and are consuming me.
I start working.
The first words I wipe away are from the bedroom wall. Job dates. Evidence of her work. Proof she was a cleaner. Each stroke of my cloth erases years. Removes testimony. Destroys evidence.
The shimmer reacts. Fights back. Mom's supernatural residue doesn't want to be erased. Wants to be seen. Wants to be known. Wants her daughter to understand. To learn. To avoid the same fate.
But I keep scrubbing. Professional. Efficient. Thorough. Because that's what I do. Because that's what I'm good at. Because the Board owns me and the contract binds me and I have no choice.
Except I do have a choice. Could refuse. Could leave. Could let Mom's warning stand. Could tell Cameron no. Could breach the contract. Could accept the penalties. Could protect Mom's legacy instead of destroying it.
But I don't. Because I'm afraid. Because I'm trapped. Because I believe the same lie Mom believed—that if I just do the work, just complete the jobs, just keep consuming, everything will be okay. Mika will be safe. The Board will keep promises. The sacrifice will mean something.
Even though I know it's a lie. Even though Mom's message says they lied to her. Even though everything I've learned says the Board doesn't keep promises. Even though I know Mika won't be safe just because I erase people.
I keep working anyway. Because that's what the work does. Makes you complicit in your own destruction. Makes you erase the warnings that could save you. Makes you choose the system over yourself. Over family. Over everything.
I move to the bathroom. To the mirror message. Mom's blood. Dark and old and real. Final testimony. Last warning. Ultimate gift.
And I have to erase it.
My hands shake. First time in weeks my hands have shaken during a cleansing. First time the professional distance has cracked. First time I've felt like Vedia instead of just cleaner.
Mom's echo stands beside me. Watching. Not judging. Just watching. Understanding. She did the same things. Made the same choices. Erased people for money. Consumed violence for survival. Chose the system over herself. Over us.
And it killed her. Will kill me. Same fate. Same ending. Same doom.
I wipe away the first line. "They promised if I worked until I died, they'd leave you and Mika alone."
The blood dissolves under ritualized bleach. Seventeen-year-old blood. Mom's blood. The last thing she wrote. Disappearing under chemicals designed for efficient erasure.
Mom's echo flickers. Starts fading. The message was anchoring her. Keeping her here. Giving her purpose. Warning me. Protecting me. Now it's going. She's going.
I wipe away the next line. "I believed them. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
More fading. Mom's form getting translucent. Transparent. Disappearing. Being erased by her own daughter. By the person she tried to warn. By the one she died trying to protect.
Third line. "GET MIKA OUT."
Fourth line. "You won't save yourself."
Fifth line. "I love you."
Final line. "I failed you."
Gone. All of it. Every word. Every warning. Every piece of advice. Every drop of blood. Erased. Clean. Like it never existed. Like Mom never wrote it. Like she never tried. Like she never cared.
Mom's echo is almost gone now. Nearly transparent. Barely visible. Fading with her message. Disappearing with her legacy. Being consumed by the same system that consumed her life.
She looks at me one last time. Her mouth moves. I read her lips:
"I love you. Save Mika."
Then she's gone. Completely gone. Just empty air where my mother used to be. Where her echo stood. Where her warning existed.
I've erased my own mother. Destroyed her testimony. Removed her warning. Made it like she never knew. Like she never tried. Like she never left anything for me.
For the Property Board. For five thousand dollars. For a system that lied to her. For a contract that owns me. For a district that's consuming us both.
I collapse. Fall to my knees in the clean bathroom. Mom's blood washed away. Her message erased. Her echo gone. Nothing left. Nothing remaining. Just another completed job. Just another successful cleansing.
I scream. Actually scream. First time since I became a cleaner. First time I've let myself feel the horror fully. First time I've faced what I've become. What I'm doing. What I've done.
I erased my mother. For money. For the Board. For a system that killed her and is killing me. For nothing. For less than nothing. For evil.
The apartment is clean now. Empty. Silent. No shimmer. No echo. No Mom. Just bare walls and bare floor and the absence of everything that mattered.
Job complete. Professional. Thorough. Exactly what the Board wanted. Exactly what they're paying me for. Exactly what I'm good at.
Destroying everything I love. Erasing everyone who tried to help me. Consuming myself piece by piece until there's nothing left but function and hunger and foreign emotions.
I'm my mother's daughter. Following her path. Completing her journey. Dying the same way she died. For the same lies. For the same empty promises. For the same cruel system.
And I can't stop. Won't stop. Will keep working until I'm gone too. Until Mika finds my body. Until I leave my own warnings that some other cleaner will be forced to erase. Until the cycle continues forever.
Family curse. Inherited doom. The Gift that's really a sentence. Death that passes down through blood.
Mom tried to break it. Failed. I'll fail too. Some descendant of mine—if I have children, if I live long enough—will follow the same path. Find the same work. Discover the same Gift. Serve the same Board. Die the same way.
Forever. Until the district is satisfied. Until the Board is done. Until there are no more Aquilas to consume. Until the bloodline ends.
I drag myself out of the apartment. Leave Mom's place for the second time. First time she was already dead. This time I killed her. Again. More completely. More permanently. Erased her so thoroughly she might as well have never existed.
For money. For the Board. For nothing.
Payment notification arrives as I reach the street. $5,000. No. $15,000. Bonus included. Reason: "Emotionally difficult assignment. Exceptional professional conduct under challenging circumstances."
They knew. The Board knew. Cameron knew. They sent me to Mom's apartment deliberately. Made me erase her deliberately. Tested me deliberately. Proved I'm owned. Proved there's nothing I won't do. Proved I'm completely theirs.
And they're right. I am theirs. Completely. Irrevocably. The same way Mom was theirs. The same way every Aquila has been theirs. The same way Mika would be theirs if I don't save him.
That's the only thing left. The only thing that matters. The only way Mom's death means anything. Save Mika. Get him out. Break the cycle even if I can't escape it.
Mom's last message. Last request. Last hope. The only thing she asked. The only thing I can still do.
I have to save him. Have to get him away from the Bowery. Away from the district. Away from Cameron. Away from anything that might recruit him. Even if it costs everything. Even if it kills me faster. Even if it means dying before the transformation finishes naturally.
I have to save him. It's all I have left. All Mom left me. All that matters.
Even if I damn myself completely. Even if I destroy myself utterly. Even if I become the monster the Board wants me to be.
At least Mika escapes. At least he lives. At least he breaks the curse.
That has to be enough.
I take the subway home. Numb. Empty. Hollow. The money is in my account. $15,000. Blood money. Mom's blood. My blood. Family blood. The price of erasing family to prove loyalty to the system that killed her.
Mika is home when I arrive. Sitting at the kitchen table doing homework on his new laptop. The one I bought with blood money from other jobs. The one I'm still paying for with more blood. With Mom's blood now.
He looks up. "Where were you?"
I should tell him. Should explain. Should warn him. Should say: Mika, Mom was a cleaner. I'm a cleaner. It's inherited. You're safe but I'm dying. Get out of the Bowery. Get away from here. Get away from me. Save yourself.
I start to speak. Open my mouth. Form the words. "I need to tell you something—"
My phone buzzes. Cameron: Say nothing. Contract clause 7: family cannot be informed. Violation will result in immediate breach penalties. Your brother's safety depends on your compliance.
The threat is clear. Tell him and lose him. Warn him and kill him. The Board will target him. The district will claim him. Cameron will recruit him or erase him.
My only protection for Mika is silence. Is pretending everything's fine. Is letting him believe I'm okay and the money is legitimate and his sister isn't dying to keep him safe.
I swallow the words. Swallow the warning. Swallow everything Mom tried to tell me and everything I want to tell him.
"Nothing," I say. "I'm just tired."
He looks at me. Studies my face. The black veins visible now even through makeup. The exhaustion. The wrongness. The evidence that his sister is dying and won't explain why.
"You're not okay," he says quietly. "I don't know what's happening. But you're not okay. And you won't tell me. Won't let me help. Won't—" He stops. Voice breaking. "I'm losing you. Like we lost Mom. Watching you disappear the same way. And I can't stop it. Can't help. Can't do anything."
He's crying. Sixteen years old and crying because his sister is dying and won't explain. Because he's losing the only family he has left. Because he's watching it happen and can't do anything.
I want to hug him. Want to explain. Want to tell him everything. Want to warn him. Want to save him by making him understand.
But the contract says no. The Board says no. Cameron says no. My only way to protect him is to lie. To distance. To let him hate me rather than join me. To make him think I'm choosing this. Choosing to destroy myself. Choosing to leave him.
Better he hates me than becomes me. Better he thinks I'm selfish than understands I'm dying for him. Better he's angry than recruited.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just working hard. It'll get better."
"No it won't." He stands up. Shuts his laptop. "It won't get better. You're dying. I can see it. Everyone can see it. And you won't stop. Won't get help. Won't do anything except work and work and work until—" He stops. Can't say it. Can't say until you die. "I can't watch this anymore."
He goes to his room. Closes the door. Locks it. Shuts me out. Protects himself from the pain of watching me die.
Smart. Healthy. Exactly what he should do. Exactly what Mom would want. Protect himself. Save himself. Survive even if I don't.
I'm alone in the apartment. Kitchen table covered with his homework and my blood money and the evidence of a family dying. Mom gone. Me going. Mika the only one left. The only one who can be saved.
I have to save him. It's all Mom asked. All I can do. All that matters.
But how? How do I save someone from a system that tracks bloodlines? How do I protect him from a Board that's patient? How do I break a curse that's in our blood?
Mom tried. Failed. Seventeen years of effort. Died believing her sacrifice would protect us. Died wrong. The Board lied. I'm proof. I'm their new recruit. Their fresh meat. Their next-generation Aquila.
But Mika's safe. Mom's message said so. The Gift skips alternating generations. Mother to daughter, father to son, but not every generation. Mika doesn't have it. Won't manifest. Won't become cleaner. Won't follow this path.
Unless the Board recruits him anyway. Makes him work without the Gift. Makes him normal cleaner without supernatural ability. Slower death. Less useful. But still dead. Still consumed. Still theirs.
I have to get him out. Out of the Bowery. Out of the city. Out of anywhere the district can reach. Send him somewhere safe. Somewhere the Board doesn't operate. Somewhere Cameron doesn't recruit.
But where? The Board operates everywhere there's displacement. Everywhere there's gentrification. Everywhere there's violence against the poor. Which is everywhere. The system is universal. The district is metaphor for something bigger. Something that exists in every city. Every neighborhood. Everywhere.
There's nowhere safe. Nowhere the Board doesn't reach. Nowhere the system doesn't operate.
Unless he's not poor. Unless he has money. Unless he has options. Unless he has escape velocity from the cycle that trapped Mom and me and every Aquila before us.
Money. The one thing that might save him. Enough money to leave. To go to college. To build a life somewhere else. To never need the work that killed his family.
I'm making money. Good money. $15,000 today. $25,000 last weekend. Hundreds of thousands if I keep working. Enough to send Mika away. Enough to buy his escape. Enough to break the cycle.
All it costs is me. My life. My humanity. My remaining months. Everything I am. Everything Mom was. Everything the Board wants.
But it might save Mika. Might be enough. Might break the curse for him at least. Even if I die. Even if I transform. Even if I become what Marcus became. At least he escapes.
Mom died for nothing. Her sacrifice meaningless. But mine won't be. I'll make sure. I'll work harder. Earn more. Save faster. Get Mika enough money to escape. To stay gone. To never come back.
Then I can die. Can let the transformation finish. Can become infrastructure. Can stop fighting. Can accept what I've become.
But only after Mika's safe. Only after he's gone. Only after the cycle breaks for him at least.
That's my purpose now. My only purpose. The only thing left that matters. Save Mika. Break the curse. Make Mom's death and my death mean something.
Even if it means dying faster. Even if it means taking every job. Even if it means erasing myself completely. Even if it means becoming exactly what the Board wants.
At least Mika lives. At least he escapes. At least he's free.
That's all Mom asked. All I can give. All that's left.
I'm Vedia Aquila. I'm twenty years old. I have months left. Maybe weeks. Maybe days if I keep working like this.
But Mika will live. Will escape. Will break the curse. Will be the first Aquila in generations to be free.
That has to be enough. Has to be worth it. Has to mean something.
Even if I die erasing my own mother. Even if I become the monster that destroys everything I love. Even if I sacrifice everything for a hope that might be another lie the Board tells.
At least I try. At least I fight. At least I choose who I save even if I can't save myself.
Mom tried. Failed. But she tried. That's what matters. That's what I'll do. Try. Fight. Save Mika even if it kills me.
Even if it already has killed me. Even if I'm already dead and just haven't stopped moving yet. Even if every job is just twitching. Just momentum. Just corpse that hasn't realized it's corpse.
Tomorrow I'll work again. Accept more jobs. Earn more money. Consume more violence. Transform more. Die more.
For Mika. For escape. For breaking curses. For making sacrifices mean something.
For being more than just the Board's tool. For being daughter and sister and person even if only for moments. Even if only in choices. Even if only in death.
That's all I have left. All I am. All I'll ever be.
Mom's daughter. Mika's sister. The Aquila who tried.
Even if trying kills me. Even if trying is dying. Even if trying is becoming a monster.
At least I try.