Vetris’s Fleshhouse Avenue is always alive, even during funerals, holy days, and especially during brewing wars. It never closes, never observes silence, because unlike jewelry or shoes or swords, human comfort is always needed. The fleshhouses exist in defiance of all Vetris’s suffocating religion and decorum, and maybe that’s why I feel a little freer here, even if the hawkers sitting outside shout me down as I pass or the customers give me a leery eye every few steps. The objectification is a double-edged sword; uncomfortable and yet comforting in the sense I’m one of the masses here—not the exception. Not a noble or a Heartless but just a girl. Reduced to my barest parts, reduced to what I’ve always wanted to be. Just a human girl.

I crane my head and search each house’s facade desperately for any scrap of dark leather or a tall, proud frame. Prince Lucien’s got to be here, dressed in his “all-leather getup,” which means he’s roaming the streets as Whisper, the enigmatic thief who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. I scoff as I scan the crowd for him, remembering how trite I used to think he was for it. How privileged I was back then, that I could ever consider helping people “trite.”

There—on the doorstep of a three-story house. A young man in skin-fitting leather armor, a black cloak over him, emerges from the doorway arm-in-arm with a beautiful, smiling girl in a lace dress. My courage ship springs a sudden hole, leaking everywhere. What am I doing, stalking him like this? He’s hired a fleshworker, obviously. He’s moving on. This is his business. And I have no right being a part of it anymore.

Come now, Zera. You’re better than this. Not much better, but still. At least say sorry to him tonight. And then you can nurse your silly, immature jealousy alone.

I squeeze my fists and march toward the two of them, my unheart in my throat and my mouth bone-dry. I push closer and closer. The girl is so beautiful it’s almost hard to look at her—sweet and unassuming, with bright red curls and a round face. She’s human, all human. They’re talking so openly, Lucien nodding from time to time, his elbow firmly laced with hers. He’s free to do anything with whom he wishes. I know that.

tear them apart, the hunger hisses. eat them together.

I somehow finally get close enough to hear the beautiful girl speak.

“…don’t need that much. But the matron can’t afford it—not on top of the polymath bills, too.”

“Chillsbane, sleeping draughts, and pain relievers,” I hear Lucien’s voice rumble behind his cowl. “All right. I can manage that.”

The girl’s green eyes light up. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”