Midnight. Somewhere in Beyoğlu, Istanbul.

The darkness has depth and the scent of magic is heavy in the air. We walk the cobbled streets on light feet, veiling ourselves with shadows. Paheli is on a mission, and we know better than to stop her.

Each of her missions yields a Wild One. We were all once such missions.

We do not consider ourselves heroines of yore. We are not strong like the superheroes people love. We do not intend to save humanity. Far from it, in fact.

We simply help girls. We help them escape, we listen to them when they need someone to listen, and we hug them when they need comfort that comes without conditions. We set up safe houses around the world and keep them funded.

We help them because once, Paheli helped us. She brought us out of danger, listened to us, comforted us, and gave us the space and the resources we needed to heal. All of us have spoken to professionals versed in the science of broken hearts, hurting minds, and invaded bodies. We are works in progress.

We don’t know what drives Paheli to go one step further than us to help other girls in need. Thanks to Eulalie, she has a spell that sends her a summoning whenever she is in the vicinity of a girl who might become a Wild One. A girl who is hanging on to life and sanity by the last strand she can muster. A girl who has been betrayed by those she considers most dear. Paheli tastes the pain and she yields to its summoning.

We left Taraana in the apartment. He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t protest. Perhaps he read the haste in our hearts. He is there, and for the moment he is safe.

Walking swiftly, we leave the revelry in the main streets for the quiet blanketing the residential areas of the city. Paheli leads the way.

It is a clear night. Stars, what we can see of them, glitter in the sky. Paheli stops in front of an apartment building. We stop with her. She looks up, and for a moment we see nothing. Then we do and we wish we hadn’t.

We make our way to the roof—the door to it is ajar, banging in the wind. It is cold; our breaths steam. The girl is framed against the night. She stands at the very edge of the roof, poised as if to fly. She is about seventeen and slender, with thin brown hair.

Our footsteps are silent, but she must sense us, because she turns. We stand in front of her, a collection of broken girls. She looks at us, but she doesn’t seem to see us. The sounds of the city are muted. A cat yowls somewhere.