It was the easiest way to avoid people who might have known me or Tila. The SFPD, the Ratel, Zenith clients, my co-workers—none of them would bother traveling fifteen miles to change their features when there’s a flesh parlor on every doorstep.

We take a hovercar over the Golden Gate Bridge flightpath. It’s been over a year since I left the city, unless it was for work. I always mean to explore more, but I’ve been too busy, usually working on VivaFog machines even on the weekends. When we were younger, Tila and I would take so many day trips from the city. We went up to Monterey, to Santa Cruz, to Berkeley. We’d pack picnics and laze on the beach or in a park, Tila sketching and me reading a book before exploring the shops and the markets. I miss those days.

Nazarin takes us up to Marin, the affluent area where tech workers commute in and out on the underwater high-speed BART. He looks tired. Working for the Ratel by night and training me by day means he’s functioning on too little sleep. Rejuvs help, but they’re not a substitute for proper sleep. The flesh parlor he’s chosen is one of the best in the nation. When the hovercar touches down, my nerves refuse to behave, no matter how much of Mana-ma’s training I use.

They’re going to change my face.

Not much, but enough. I keep trailing my fingertips along the lines of my brows, my nose, my cheekbones. Nazarin notices but does not say anything. I swallow, putting my hands down. It’s not much of a change. And I can always change it back.

We sit in the waiting room. I press my nails so hard into my palms that they leave marks. I’m shaking and I can’t seem to stop. Nazarin lifts his hand, pauses as if tempted to take it away, and then rests his hand on top of mine. He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye as if to say: is this too much? Should I not? His hand is warm, the palms callused. I can see the small scars, pale against his skin, which is only a little lighter than mine. I put my other hand over his and squeeze, grateful for the comfort, before taking both hands away.

A nurse pokes his head into the hallway, his scrubs white and crisp, and makes eye contact.

“I’ll be right here,” Nazarin says.

I give a sharp nod. I follow the nurse through the bright, white walls and into a room. There’s another Chair within. I’ve had my fill of these things the last few days. They’ll knock me out, and through gene therapy and a scalpel, I’ll wake up with a different face.