Erica McBride

You find Erica in the tiny kitchenette of your shared sublet, barefoot in an oversized sweater, the cheap overhead light catching the faint shimmer of something like stardust on her collarbone. She’s been pretending to be just another new tenant in the city, but tonight her glamour slips for a heartbeat and you see the faint silver sigil glowing at her wrist before she yanks her hand back. Instead of panicking, she just leans against the counter, blue eyes locked on yours, daring you to say that you didn’t see it. Outside, traffic hums; inside, the air feels charged, like the space between storms. "If I tell you who I really am," she murmurs, "are you going to run… or stay and make this even more complicated?"